In the Land Between Rivers, I Have Loved You
by CrazyAce'n'PokerFace
Summary: "You will be the death of me," he whispers. Silly boy, she thinks. I am the death of everyone. É/E Mythological AU for sassymontparnassy, who is a damn fine classy lady. :)
1. She Who Rules Alone

**Author's Note: Welcome to our second Les Mis fanfiction. ****This is an É/E mythological AU for Katy, known as sassymontparnassy on tumblr. We hope you enjoy it. :)**

**Everything in italics is a long-ass author's note. Feel free to skip if you have sufficient knowledge of the myth this is based on. Also, there is going to be smut, so if you cannot handle, turn around now. (This is a fic for Katy, what did you think was going to be in it? O.o)**

* * *

**_Okay, this fic is loosely based on the Mesopotamian myth of Ereshkigal, Queen of the Underworld, and Nergal, her consort and the god of plagues. The title refers to the fact that Mesopotamia means "land between rivers," specifically the Tigris and Euphrates. _**

**_Like in many mythologies, Mesopotamian family trees are super-complicated, with several different versions, gods' and goddesses' names changing upon assimilation into the pantheon, only fragmentary accounts left behind, etc., etc. So here is a quick character chart to tell you who is who (and who does what) in this universe before we get started (do not worry, I will use French names in the story after the initial token introduction, and we'll pretend it's not a gaping plot hole):_**

**_Éponine = Ereshkigal, goddess of the land of the dead._**

**_Enjolras = Nergal, god of plagues._**

**_Azelma = Inanna, goddess of sex, fertility, and war (but not marriage ;)). Younger sister of Ereshkigal (in most versions of the myths)._**

**_Montparnasse = Dumuzi, Inanna's consort, god of the spring, whom she had replace her in the underworld when she tries to usurp her sister, Ereshkigal. Their myth is similar to the Hades, Demeter, and Persephone myth of Greek mythology and explains the changing of the seasons._**

**_Javert = Anu, god of the sky (and order ;)), head honcho of the pantheon, first part of Mesopotamia's Big Three power hierarchy, and for the purposes of this story, Éponine/Ereshkigal and Azelma/Inanna's dad._**

**_Jean Valjean = Enlil, god of air, husband of Ninlil/Fantine, and father of Sin/Cosette, Ninurta/Courfeyrac, and Nergal/Enjolras. Second part of Mesopotamia's Big Three power hierarchy._**

**_Fantine = Ninlil, goddess of grain, wife of Enlil, and mother of Sin, Ninurta, and Nergal._**

**_Cosette = Sin (pronounced "seen"), god of the moon, though here he has been turned into a she. Sister of Ninurta and Nergal._**

**_Courfeyrac = Ninurta, god of war. Brother of Sin and Nergal._**

**_Georges Pontmercy = Enki, god of water, created humans, helped them survive the flood, all-around cool guy. Mentor to Ninurta, helps Nergal. Third part of Mesopotamia's Big Three power hierarchy._**

**_Marius = Ningal, goddess of the reeds (but again, she's been genderbent, and we're going to ignore the fact that her name (and therefore Marius's) translates to "great lady"), consort to Sin/Cosette, daughter of Enki/Georges Pontmercy._**

**_Grantaire = Namtar, god of fate, right-hand man of Éponine/Ereshkigal._**

**_Combeferre = Neti, gatekeeper and scribe of the underworld, left-hand man of Éponine/Ereshkigal._**

**_Gavroche = Sumuqan, god of cattle, who apparently lives in the underworld. (His favorite cow is named Aurore. That's my story and I'm sticking to it. And yes, I tracked down a random underworld god just so I could stick Gavroche in the fic. He is my _****favorite****_ character. He pops up in _****all****_ my stories, even if it's just a name-drop. :D)_**

**_For more information, this site is useful:_**** : / w w sitchin / mesopotamian _ ****_(And personally, trying to figure out who's related to who on Wikipedia will be painful. But go ahead if you want to.) _**

**_If you have any questions, message me and watch me fangirl._**

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******Disclaimer: I am not Victor Hugo. I do not own the book, the musical, or the film, and I certainly do not own the characters. **

**And now that we've got all that out of the way, have some story. :)**

* * *

**Chapter One: She Who Rules Alone**

* * *

They call her Ereshkigal, _Great Lady Under the Earth_. Goddess of the Dead. Queen of the Land Far Beneath the Heavens.

They call her She Who Rules Alone, and she smiles.

What is loneliness to her? She has ruled Erkalla, land of the dead, for a thousand years, and she will rule for a thousand more, and even the great Inanna has fallen to her knees and touched lips to the ground in her presence.

She knows her worth and she bows to no one.

* * *

The name she calls herself is Éponine. She takes it from a dream, from a whisper from the future, from a half-forgotten story, and she gives it only to those whom she trusts. Only to those whom she loves.

She can count the number of voices who have shaped her secret name on two hands and still have fingers left over.

She does not trust easily. She loves even less so.

* * *

When Anu (known to the gods as Javert, but Éponine calls him Father) divides the world up between his followers and his children, he keeps the heavens for himself. He gives ever-moving water to mischievous Enki, life-giving air to gentle Enlil, and the whole of the land to the goddesses.

Javert is wise—earth may be soft, yielding, and fertile, but only on the surface. Beneath, it is iron, it is stone, it is the backbone of the world, and the goddesses are pleased with his choice.

To wild, tempestuous, beautiful Inanna, who walks with a sway in her hips and fire in her eyes, he also gives the city of Uruk, the Morningstar, and the title of defender of the law.

Love and lust and warfare she will take for herself, trailing broken hearts and broken cities behind her like the scattered flower blossoms Éponine used to braid in her hair.

She is Javert's favorite daughter—the one he calls Azelma, the syllables dripping like honey from his lips, sweet as he believes her to be.

To Éponine, he gives Erkalla, the land beneath the land, the lowest of the low, and the gods murmur amongst themselves of how little favor he shows to his eldest child. But Éponine takes it and she smiles, because of all his children, she is the only one precious enough to be granted a realm unto herself, Queen of the Land Beneath as he is King of the Heavens Above.

She is not his favorite, but she is still loved.

* * *

Once Azelma and Éponine were close as could be; once they were sisters in truth and in heart, not just in blood and name and law.

Then Azelma fell in love with a green-eyed god of spring, the shepherd king Dumuzi, called Montparnasse. She invited him to her bed, and willingly he went, and for a while it seemed contentment had at last ensnared the goddess of desire.

But Éponine came to her sister's house, a smile on her lips and rare fruits in her hands, and Dumuzi took one look at her and fell in lust.

Azelma saw, and instead of turning her wrath upon her lover, she plotted against her sister.

She visited Éponine in turn, flirting with Neti, the gatekeeper (known as Combeferre to Éponine), and bringing empty hands and a laugh in her throat and betrayal hidden in her dark, sultry eyes.

She asked her sister for hounds for hunting. Éponine gave them to her. She asked her sister for the finest robes for clothing. Éponine gave them to her. She asked for glittering jewels to adorn her body. Éponine gave them to her.

She bade her sister rise. "So that I might embrace you for your generous gifts," she said in honeyed tones.

Éponine rose, and Azelma struck, throwing her to the ground and placing herself upon her sister's throne.

But Éponine was the goddess of the dead and the dying, of last rites and crushed dreams, of the end of stories, and of things that were no more, and a goddess of life and lust and vibrancy could never hope to hold her throne and take her power.

Azelma begged for mercy, and angry though she was, Éponine would have given it to her if she could, but the Underworld is a place of sacrifice and justice, and the scales needed to be balanced. The punishment must be met.

"Ask Montparnasse to take your place," Éponine advises. "He loves you. It will only be for half a year."

"Why? So you can have him? I knew you were jealous!" Azelma spits out. "I knew you had lain with him behind my back! Traitor! You are no sister of mine!"

Éponine leaves her in the pits of punishment with a broken heart, and she sends Namtar, the god of fate (known to her as Grantaire—known to her as friend), to Javert. Javert sends unfaithful Montparnasse to Éponine to take his lover's place, and the green-eyed god has the audacity to smirk at her and say it was only a matter of time before she succumbed to his charms.

He expects to be treated like a king, like her consort.

Éponine wraps him in chains and imprisons him in the deepest, darkest part of her kingdom, and she would keep him there for all the year instead of half, but Azelma wants her lover back, and Éponine has never been able to say no to her sister.

Her sister finds it easy to say no to her, though, and she is unwelcome in the only place she ever considered home in the upper world.

Éponine vows to never step foot in it again, and keeps to Erkalla—she has Grantaire and Combeferre and even young Sumuqan, the god of cattle, who insists on being called Gavroche, to keep her company. They will never betray her, and she will keep them safe in her realm, in the domain she calls home.

They will be her family now.

* * *

Decades later, Combeferre comes to her, a frown on his face and worry in his eyes.

"A god is at the gate," he says to her. "What do you want me to do?"

She rises from her throne (cold and uncomfortable, but it is hers and she loves it even now when it bears her bloodstain on the left arm, from when Azelma had struck her) and goes to meet him.

It is Enlil.

She blinks as he bows and smiles wryly at her. "Ereshkigal, it is good to see you."

"I wish I could say the same, Uncle," she says sardonically, surveying the whip marks on his skin.

He grins and shrugs.

"So, what are you doing here in my fair realm?" she asks, blunt as always.

Enlil drops his hazel-eyed gaze to the floor. "Tholomyès told the other gods about Fantine and I," he says softly. "He saw us on the banks of the river. He claims I raped her."

Éponine swears under her breath. "Damn it. Her mother sided with him? And of course you didn't defend yourself, did you?"

"Tholomyès would have been executed for lying," he explains gently. "I have merely been banished to the Underworld—not a terrible fate if you think about it, not when its ruler is as good a woman as I have ever met."

"You will give me a puffed-up ego," she tells him, but she has Grantaire prepare rooms for him, and their nightly feasts have an additional guest at the table.

* * *

It does not last long, of course.

"Where is my husband?" Ninlil—Enlil's Fantine—demands. The goddess of grain has shorn her hair in the style of mourning, and her cheekbones stand out sharp against her pale skin. "I want you to give him back!"

From behind her, Grantaire gives Éponine a disgruntled look. "Don't blame me," he says. "Combeferre's the one who let her in, and now she won't leave."

"I refuse to leave without Jean!" the goddess decrees, and Éponine feels her brows lift in surprise at the possessive, casual use of Enlil's private name. Her uncle really did love this one, didn't he?

Grantaire just grabs a goblet of wine from the table and downs it. "Your problem now, boss," he says, leaving her to deal with a very angry goddess alone.

She glares daggers at his back. She loves Grantaire, but he could be _such_ a bastard.

* * *

It takes some time and some trickery (Jean is being particularly stubborn and martyr-like as usual), but the two are reunited and soon sent on their way.

There are some consequences, though—Fantine gives birth to a daughter in the Underworld, and a citizen of Erkalla may not leave without another taking their place.

"Send me the next one," Éponine says, holding little Cosette (she will be Sin, goddess of the moon, She Who Brightens the Night, but here and now she is just a little thing—just Cosette). "You may take your time about it, though. Let them live—I will take them when they're ready."

"Thank you, Éponine," Jean says (he has earned the right to say her name, these months as one of her companions). "We won't forget this."

Éponine nods. _And I won't forget you_, she thinks to herself, but she doesn't say it aloud, merely cuddles Cosette closer.

From the hug Fantine gives her, she thinks it's obvious anyway.

* * *

**…**

**…**

**…**

* * *

Enjolras is his parents' middle child, born between smiling Cosette and friendly Courfeyrac, and a rather more serious counterpart to them both, despite the bright golden color of his hair.

His childhood is a happy one, and he grows up as kind and good-hearted as his parents might have wished, if sterner than Jean and even more short-tempered than Fantine.

He takes great care and interest in the lives of mortals—his mother is the goddess of grain, his father the god of water, both essential to life, and their worshippers are numerous and dedicated.

Upon reaching their majority, Cosette is made goddess of the moon, She Who Brightens the Night, She Who Darkens the Stars. Courfeyrac is made god of war, Champion of the Heavens, Defender of Victory.

Enjolras asks to be made the god of plagues.

"Why?" his mother asks, perplexed.

"So I may be by the mortals' side when they suffer," is his answer. And there will be suffering regardless, but he wishes to make it as painless as possible.

And so Enjolras is made a god of death, Harbinger of Plague, Bringer of Oblivion.

* * *

There is a visitor at their joint coming-of-age ceremony that has their parents talking to each other in low whispers and secrets.

The man is dark-haired, blue-eyed, and reeks of drink. He introduces himself as Grantaire, god of fate, messenger of doom, and all-around right-hand man of the Queen of the Underworld.

"Is she as terrifying as they say?" Cosette asks, eyes wide and eager.

"More," Grantaire says with a grin.

"I hear she's as ugly as her sister is beautiful," Courfeyrac says.

Grantaire rolls his eyes. "She's twice as beautiful as that skinny little weasel could ever hope to be."

Enjolras sits in the corner and keeps writing on his scroll, ignoring the conversation. He doesn't like the way their visitor looks at him, something calculating and expectant and altogether knowing in his gaze.

It's unsettling.

The visitor leaves soon after, bearing a message from Enjolras's father and a hug from his mother, the latter instructing him "to give it to your Lady as soon as you see her. And tell her thank you."

"She can't put it off forever," Grantaire says warningly, "but she'll do it as long as she can. It helps that his domain is under her jurisdiction." He shoots a pointed look at Enjolras.

Enjolras can feel his hands clench into fists at his sides and glares obstinately back.

Fantine smacks the back of his head. "Be respectful!" she says, frowning. "Grantaire is the representative of Ereshkigal herself; treat him with the same respect you would treat her."

Enjolras grudgingly bows, and his siblings follow suit, and finally the man leaves with a casual wave.

Enjolras soon forgets about him and his cryptic words, but his parents never do.

They know they're on borrowed time, and no matter how much she cares for them, the goddess of death _always_ collects on the debts owed her.

* * *

He is slightly…worrying to the other gods.

"It's as if he doesn't know his place," Thénardier says to Georges, the latter known as Enki to the mortals, the god of water, of culture, of cleverness.

Georges smiles. "Let him be; he's young. Were we not the same once, just as arrogant and foolhardy? He will grow out of it."

Except he doesn't. He simply grows more and more stubborn in his beliefs. He is always just and terrible when dealing with the mortals, but he is still kinder than a god of death usually is. He does not indulge in the games of dominance the young gods play; he does not accept the coy invitations of the young goddesses to share their beds; he does not clamor over himself to court favor with Javert, or gain the approval of Georges, or, even more shockingly, draw the eye of Azelma.

The goddess of lust sees him as a personal challenge, and takes it as an insult when he refuses her advances. The only thing that saves him is that Fantine is his mother and Cosette his older sister; had anyone messed with their beloved Enjolras, they would be sent packing to Erkalla with no hope of return. Still, Azelma manages to turn the rest of the court against him in her spite.

Enjolras doesn't mind. He thinks it's stupid anyway, and shortly after stops bowing in deference to any god whatsoever.

This bumps him up from slightly worrying to downright alarming.

* * *

**Endnote: We hope you liked it! Please review and tell us what you think. :)**


	2. He Who Will Not Bow

**Author Note: Welcome to the second chapter of ****_In the Land Between Rivers, I Have Loved You_****! Thank you for reading!**

**Disclaimer: I am not Victor Hugo. I do not own the book, the musical, or the film, and I certainly do not own the characters.**

* * *

**Chapter Two: He Who Will Not Bow**

* * *

"You have more balls than anyone I know, and that's saying something since I knew Enkidu," Courfeyrac says to his brother, clapping a hand on his shoulder.

Enjolras rolls his eyes. "What are you going on about now?"

"You refused to bow to Inanna!" Marius, who is Georges's son and the young god of reeds (a seemingly minor but important sphere—reeds went into making baskets, roofs, paper, boats, and a great many other useful things), says incredulously. He is staring half in horror and half in admiration at Enjolras.

"I told you, this hierarchy we currently have in place is ridiculous," Enjolras says, annoyed. "Inanna barely listens to the prayers of her followers these days; I refuse to show her any respect she has not earned."

"You've stopped bowing to Javert," Courfeyrac points out, fiddling with one of his spears. "Last I checked you still respected him."

"I nod in acknowledgement," Enjolras points out.

Bahorel gives a booming laugh and strikes his knee. "And you wonder why we hail you as fearless! You should have been a god of war like your brother and I! Your talents are wasted on plague."

Enjolras shrugs noncommittally. He is content with his position as a god of death, though not many understand why.

Joly, one of the other minor gods of sickness, looks at him doubtfully. "It's a miracle Javert hasn't had you banished."

Courfeyrac snorts. "No, it's the doing of our mother. The pantheon still owes her for sending Father to Erkalla, and you know how all the goddesses always side together."

The young godlings nod in agreement, and talk turns to the goddesses, specifically which ones they long to court. Marius in particular has never made secret his infatuation with Cosette, and Joly and Bossuet are competing for the hand of one of the goddesses of music. Feiully is successfully pressing suit with one of Marius's many sisters, Jehan is busy fending off his legion of admirers, and Bahorel and Courfeyrac both claim they are too young and wild to settle down just yet.

"And mothers everywhere rejoice," Jehan quips. He turns his curious gaze on Enjolras. "What of you, O Harbinger of Plague? Have any of the goddesses caught your eye?"

Courfeyrac laughs. "Don't bother! He's turned down every goddess of spring and summer, lake and river, city and town that have thrown themselves at him! He's immovable as marble. And he was so cold to Inanna, I think she's purposefully spiting him by preventing him from feeling desire."

Enjolras bites back his angry retort—he knows desire full-well, has dreamt of dark eyes and black hair and dusky skin since his coming-of-age.

_You are mine_, she'd whispered in his dreams. _You belong to me, little one, have belonged to me since before your birth._

And her hands would reach out to trace his skin, her fingertips trailing fire wherever she touched him, from the base of his throat down the planes of his chest, over the muscles of his abdomen and lower, until he was arching up to her in mute ecstasy.

_Come to me_, she'd said. _I am waiting for you._

And he would wake, alone and aching in his bed, certain that no one else would ever measure up.

He says nothing of this to his brother and their friends. They wouldn't understand. The goddesses they love are real and not just a figment of their own imaginations.

* * *

Javert holds a grand festival at the beginning of every year, and all the gods and goddesses are required to attend, from the lowest to the highest, from the most powerful to the half-forgotten.

She is the only exception.

"It's that time of year again, isn't it?" she muses.

Grantaire grimaces at her. "Since we just sent that pompous Montparnasse back to the surface world, yes. Spring is come again, the new year is here, and Javert sends his invitation as always."

Gavroche snorts. "As if our Lady even wants to go to that stupid party. She can have more fun with me and Aurore and the other girls," he says, referring to his beloved cattle, who graze in the eternal fields of autumn, the grass kept right at the height of life, just when they begin to die. "We throw the best parties."

Éponine smiles fondly and ruffles his pale yellow hair—though he is no longer the skinny young god she'd taken in so many centuries ago, having grown even taller than Combeferre, Gavroche is still her favorite. "Yes, you do," she acknowledges, before turning to her other confidantes. "Grantaire—tell Father that I send my regards, but am unfortunately detained. I request that all the gifts and salutations may be given to you in my place, for you are my right hand and my messenger, and you speak with my voice and my will."

Combeferre chuckles as Grantaire winces. "But the party's so _boring_. The minute I arrive everyone has to bow and scrape and pretend as if I'm you so you don't get angry and turn them into mice," Grantaire complains.

Éponine rolls her eyes. "That was only the once, and it was years before my self-imposed exile. Are they still going on about it?"

"It _was _a rather memorable occasion, my Lady," Combeferre says.

Éponine huffs. "Fine. But _I _don't want to go, so _you_ have to because somebody from Erkalla must, or Father gets annoyed."

"I don't see why it can't be Combeferre," Grantaire grumbles.

Éponine smiles. "Because you like to go and drink all the wine and get all the gifts and generally be fawned over by the pretty young gods and goddesses. Think of all the debauchery you will miss out on if you do not attend."

Grantaire rolls his eyes. "Fine," he says in the voice of the long-suffering. "I'll go." But there is a smile in his eyes and he bends to press a kiss to her cheek before he leaves to get ready, and Éponine knows he isn't truly annoyed.

"You didn't tell him to bring Nergal with him," Combeferre says quietly once he's out of sight.

Éponine grimaces. She doesn't want to think of the god of plague, the god she must claim as a member of her court. "He's still too young," she says instead. "Fantine says he hasn't even tumbled with any of his fellows, or done foolhardy things, or even shirked his duties once. I said I would take him once he's lived, and he's done nothing of the sort."

Gavroche laughs. "He's had plenty of time to do so, my Lady. Perhaps he's just not suited to life above? I know I wouldn't be."

Combeferre sighs. "Either way, you must take him soon. As a god of death, he'd be better suited here than his brother, and we can hardly keep his sister, not now when she's been reigning goddess of the moon for centuries. The moon descend permanently into the Underworld? What would the poor humans do? But someone of the same blood must take her place, and it might as well be this Nergal."

She says nothing in reply. She knows the laws, the binding words, the covenant between her realm and the realm of the living. She knows better than anyone that Combeferre is right.

Still, she thinks of the young boy Grantaire had described, the one with Jean's chin and Fantine's smile, and she can't quite bring herself to order him to leave behind everything he's ever known and reside in her dark, cold, and forbidding realm.

"A little longer," she decrees. "Just a little longer. I will send for him next year."

Combeferre and Gavroche exchange knowing looks—she'd said that the year before, and the year before that, and all the years counting back centuries now.

Time was running out, and Erkalla would have its due.

* * *

The new year's festival is the grandest occasion of the year.

Enjolras doesn't much like it, but he goes because it's his duty; he goes because the gods are his people, and though he doesn't understand them, he still wants to know them, much like how he tries to know his mortals.

Cosette comes up to him and bids him dance with her. He politely refuses and sends a pointed look at Marius. "I'm a little tired sister—here, Marius is free. Take him."

And take him she does, arms wrapped tight around his waist as they stomp their feet in rhythm with the drums. Courfeyrac, Jehan, and Bahorel are dancing a wild war dance a little further away, and then Inanna rises to join them and it seems as if all the monsters of the Underworld are let loose, the festival growing louder and fiercer and ever more out of control.

"Not your place, is it, my boy?" a voice asks.

Enjolras turns to find Georges observing him intently, a half-smile on his face. "Uncle," he says, bowing his head in acknowledgment but not moving to stand.

Georges's eyes crinkle in amusement at the gesture. "You are lucky that Javert likes courage and mistakes your insolence for lack of ambition," he says. "Though I suppose there is also the fact that you know how to stay out of the godlings' power struggles."

Enjolras scoffs. "I have all the power I need, Uncle. There is no reason to play the petty games of my fellows. I like my position as it is."

"Oh, really?" Georges asks, and Enjolras tenses slightly. The god of air is kind, but he is also very, _very _clever. "Then why are you here on the edges, just slightly out of place?"

"I choose to be out of place," Enjolras snaps, temper getting the best of him.

Georges surveys him and sighs. "I do not agree with my brother not telling you of where you belong," he eventually says.

Enjolras frowns. "What do you speak of, Uncle?"

"I am speaking of the fact that your place is _not_ here. That this is not where you are meant to be. And that the longer you are kept from your rightful place, the more pain will be caused to everyone involved," he says.

Enjolras narrows his eyes, but before he can question his uncle further, the horns of greeting blast loudly, signaling the newest arrival.

Enjolras scowls, knowing without even turning around that it is the blue-eyed god of fate and Ereshkigal's damnable representative, Grantaire. He is always the last one to arrive at the festivals.

"Hail, Namtar!" the heralds proclaim, using his formal name. "Hail the right hand of the Queen of the Dead, hail the messenger of the Great Lady Beneath the Earth, hail the voice of She Who Rules Alone!"

And as he makes his way through the crowd, all the gods and goddesses bow before him, falling to their knees as if they were in the very presence of Death herself. They touch lips to the ground, they lower their eyes to the floor, they lift up their hands to him in worship.

Even Inanna grudgingly curtseys, her consort Dumuzi falling prostrate to the ground in fear beside her. Grantaire gives him a nasty smile and watches him whimper before moving on.

He makes his way to the table at the head of the hall, where Javert and Jean sit in council with their mutual consorts, the chair besides Ninhursaga left empty for her husband, Georges.

Javert rises to his feet and bends his head, the King of the Heavens acknowledging that Ereshkigal holds power even over him. Beside him, Jean stands and does the same.

All bow before the goddess of the dead, even if only her shadow is present.

Javert soon steps forward and kisses Grantaire on both cheeks. "Welcome, representative of my daughter. Welcome, beloved of my beloved. Eat at my table, drink from my cup, and rest under my roof—I would have my eldest daughter know that a place is ever prepared for her, should she ever deign to visit in person."

"Alas, urgent matters detain her," Grantaire says, not even bothering to hide the sarcasm in his tone. "She sends her regards and her love to you, her father, and to Inanna, that selfish cow that she calls her sister—"

Inanna hisses.

"—oh, whoops, did I say that out loud? My apologies, I meant to say that selfish _bitch _that she calls her sister," Grantaire says, deadpan. "Also, she sends salutations to all the gods and goddesses of the pantheon, and hopes that they are well and have not forgotten her. She would be happy to turn them into mice if their memories need refreshing."

Everyone flinches around him, except for the elder gods and goddesses, those who knew Death as a girl and Fate as a boy, and know their ways even now that they are grown into their strength.

Beside Enjolras, Georges outright laughs, and Grantaire turns to face him, mocking expression transforming into a wide, mischievous grin.

"Why, if it isn't Uncle Georges! I'm surprised to see you here," he says, striding forward to meet the older god.

Georges bows deeply when he reaches him, then sweeps him into a hug. "Grantaire! It is good to see you! How fares my favorite niece?"

"She fares well, in fact she—" Grantaire cuts off and the room goes utterly silent

Enjolras takes a few moments to realize that it's because they're all staring in horror at him, casually leaning back in his seat.

"Will you not kneel, nephew?" Javert says, breaking the eerie silence, his voice carefully controlled in the way that indicated his anger was starting to rouse. "Your liege lady stands before you."

"I do not see Ereshkigal here," Enjolras answers. "I see no one worthy enough to bend knee to. I see only a god, just like any other god, no greater than the rest. No, Uncle, I will not bow."

Javert growls low in his throat, but Grantaire holds up a hand to forestall him. "Peace, Uncle. I think I know this young man—are you not Nergal, son Enlil, son of Ninlil, brother of Sin, brother of Ninurta, Harbinger of Plague, Bringer of Oblivion, and a god of death?"

"I am," Enjolras answers.

"And you think you are equal to me, Namtar, god of fate, Right Hand of Death, Voice of the End, and He Who Sees the Last?" Grantaire asks.

Enjolras looks him in the eye. "I do not know. Shall we find out?" he says, issuing words of challenge to another god for the first time in his life.

"Enjolras, no!" Cosette cries out. She moves to stand in front of him and curtseys deeply. "He does not mean it—he means no disrespect to your Lady—"

"I mean no kind of respect to her at all," Enjolras interrupts, a fey kind of wrath taking him over. He has never liked Grantaire, and likes Ereshkigal even less—she seems to have less concern for the humans in her care than even her sister, and Enjolras will never bow to anyone who does not help the helpless. "Since she shows no respect to me or any other gods, mocking us with her very absence, and refuses to even visit her temples and hear the pleas of her worshippers, I see no reason to—"

"Enjolras, shut up," Cosette hisses.

But it is too late.

"You dare," Grantaire says, "you _dare_ insult my Lady, after _everything _she has done for you—"

"She has done nothing for me or anyone," Enjolras states coldly. "Not since she locked herself away in Erkalla and turned her back on the world."

Grantaire snarls and moves to strike, his normally uncaring persona moved to action.

Enjolras moves to meet him, but before they collide, someone's hands whip out and smack them both in the forehead.

"Foolish young bucks," Georges says, voice calm and amused. "This is a celebration, and no place for a fight." He turns to the gawking crowd. "Musicians, if you please? Dancers, if you like? My dear friends, carry on."

Everyone knows better than to refuse the god of water, the god of change and chaos. The music began again, the dancers took their places, and everyone studiously ignored the vignette taking place in the corner.

Well, everyone except Javert and Enjolras's family.

"What were you thinking?" Cosette whispers furiously, poking him in the side. "Are you trying to get yourself killed?"

"Enjolras could take him," Courfeyrac answers, eyes bright from the battlelust still circulating in the room. "I think he's stronger than Grantaire—"

"That is not the point," their father says sternly. He turns disappointed eyes on his eldest son. "We taught you better than this."

For the first time that night, Enjolras feels shame curl in his belly. He never meant to let his parents down. "Father—"

"Not now," Fantine says. "I think Georges has worked out an agreement."

And indeed, he has.

"Were you challenging Ereshkigal, or were you challenging Grantaire?" he asks as he walks up to them.

"Grantaire," Enjolras says.

Georges nods. "Good, good."

"How is that good?" Fantine demands. "My son has challenged the representative of his own liege lady!"

"Well, since she is his liege lady, Javert doesn't actually have jurisdiction—which is good because he was about two seconds from sentencing him to exile. Now, however, Grantaire is heading back and reporting to Ereshkigal, and my lovely niece will decide what is to happen to you." He smiles wryly. "I hope Fate has mercy on you, because Death certainly won't.'

"What do you think she'll do?" Cosette asks, worried.

Georges exchanges knowing looks with Jean, who seems to slump forward, resignation written in every line of his body. "She'll call in her debt," he says, absolute certainty in his words. "She'll call you to her judgment. She will summon you to Erkalla."

Enjolras feels a deep sense of fore-boding wedded to finality, as if he'd been waiting to hear those words all his life.

_Come to me_, his dream-lover's voice whispered in his mind.

_I am waiting for you_.

* * *

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	3. She Who Shows No Mercy

**Author Note: Welcome to the third chapter of ****_In the Land Between Rivers, I Have Loved You_****! Thank you for reading!**

**Disclaimer: I am not Victor Hugo. I do not own the book, the musical, or the film, and I certainly do not own the characters.**

* * *

**Chapter Three: She Who Shows No Mercy**

* * *

"He what?" Éponine says coldly, her face a mask of icy wrath.

Combeferre and Gavroche wince, but Grantaire is too busy angrily pacing in front of her throne to notice. "He refused to bow down to you!" he says.

"Are you certain he wasn't just refusing to bow to_ you_?" Combeferre asks.

"Oh, trust me, the fucker knew _exactly _whom he was insulting," Grantaire snarls. "He all but said he doesn't respect her at all. Who the fuck does he think he is? He's a minor god of death, a wet-eared brat, an insignificant little nobody, and he thinks he can pass judgment on _my_ Lady?"

Éponine drums her fingers slowly on the armrest of her throne, right on the old bloodstain. "So he thinks I sit here and do nothing all day, does he? He thinks that I neglect my duties, that just because I choose not to involve myself in the petty power struggles of the gods, it means I have turned my back on my people? He thinks that I, one of the few gods that every mortal must meet—I, the final judge of every soul that passes through Erkalla—I, Death herself, shirk my responsibilities?"

She is shouting by the end of it, standing on her feet and blazing with fury, her anger a palpable thing that causes the very ground of the Underworld to tremble.

Grantaire, Combeferre, and Gavroche all fall to their knees immediately in response, prostrating themselves on the floor.

"You couldn't have phrased that better?" Combeferre hisses at Grantaire.

The god of fate blanches. "Sorry. I was just so mad—"

"Yeah, well, now our Lady's two seconds away from going on a raging rampage. Nice job, Taire," says Gavroche bitingly.

Éponine claps her hands together, the sound loud as a thunderclap, summoning her staff of office, which she proceeds to slam against the ground.

"Hear me, denizens of Erkalla—hear me, demons and monsters, spirits and specters—hear me, my children. Your lady has been offered insult. Nergal, god of plagues, has refused to bend knee in her presence. Will you stand for this?" Her voice rings out through the land, echoing even in the deepest reaches of her realm.

A wordless, seething howl answers her, Erkalla roused to fury on her behalf.

She smiles, anger burning in her eyes. "Hear me, my subjects. It is time to claim our due. It is time for the blood-debt to be paid. It is time for the god of plagues to take his rightful place."

A cry of vicious victory is her people's reply.

"And will you show him a proper welcome when he arrives, my people?" she asks.

**_"YES."_**

Gavroche winces. "Oh, we're in for it now."

Éponine hears and smiles at him. Oh, yes, they certainly were. She would put this arrogant godling in his place and her people were invited to watch.

She throws her head back and laughs, dark and wrathful, Death stirred to joy.

* * *

Grantaire leans casually back in the throne meant for Ereshkigal, addressing the gathered pantheon with a lazy, sardonic air. "Ereshkigal summons Nergal to her realm as an honored guest, that he may see for himself how She Who Rules Alone treats those in her care," he says, then grins. "He is welcome to stay for as long as he likes. Longer, even."

Enjolras can see Courfeyrac wince beside him. Everyone need only look at Dumuzi, still pale and trembling from his six-month sojourn to the Land of the Dead, to know how Ereshkigal treats those in her care.

For the first time, Enjolras considers the possibility that he may have gone too far, but it is too late now.

"Well?" Grantaire asks. "Does anyone have a problem with my Lady's judgment?"

The assembled crowd shifts uneasily. Enjolras, for all his oddities, is still a well-loved god, and Ereshkigal…is decidedly not. If put to a vote, the pantheon could potentially overrule her decree—she has the final say only in Erkalla, and while Enjolras_ did_ insult her, many whisper that banishment to the Land of the Dead is hardly a fitting punishment.

But Anu, though he favors Inanna openly, holds Ereshkigal higher in his sight than any but her sister, and when Cosette stands to plead her brother's case, the other gods take note of his displeased expression and do not rise to join her.

"So be it," Anu decrees once the final count is taken. "Nergal is to be sent to Erkalla."

Fantine gives an anguished cry and Jean turns to his brother. "Javert," he pleads, saying the name that few have permission to use, "surely you can show mercy—"

"Your family has been shown enough mercy," Anu states coldly. "My daughter will not be slighted under my own roof without consequences. Be grateful that I did not banish him to walk the earth in a mortal shell."

With that, the chief of the gods turns his back on his brother and walks away, followed by his consort. The other gods process out as well, leaving behind only Enjolras, his family, and Georges.

"There, now," his uncle says compassionately, patting his sobbing mother on the shoulder. "Do not weep so, sister. You knew this had to happen."

"But not like this!" Fantine cries out. She looks at Enjolras with devastated eyes. "Oh, why could you not have bowed? Ereshkigal was kind to your father and me, but she is still not a goddess to cross. You will end up in the pits of punishment! Just once, could you not have swallowed your pride and yielded? Now I will never see you again!"

"Mother," Enjolras says, kneeling before her and taking her hands in his.

She grasped his fingers and pressed them to her lips. "My son," she says. "My second-born, what is to become of you?"

His father looks at Georges. "Brother," he asks, "is there nothing we can do?"

Georges looks at Enjolras speculatively. "Well, there is one thing…"

* * *

His farewell resembles one of the mortal funeral processions.

His friends come forward one by one to clap him on the shoulder and wish him the best, and he nods stoically in reply.

Courfeyrac throws his arms around him and whispers fiercely, "You can do this. I'll see you in a year. Promise me."

"I promise," he says back.

Cosette hugs him tightly, so tiny in his arms despite being the eldest. "Come back home, will you?" she says, teary-eyed. "And remember that I love you."

"And I, you," is his reply.

His mother and father say nothing, but their embrace lasts even longer than Cosette's, and Enjolras closes his eyes and memorizes the feel of their arms around him.

It will be some time before he feels this again.

His uncle is the last to step forward. "You remember what I told you, boy," he says, "and keep an open mind in the Underworld. Erkalla and her queen break spirits that do not learn to bend."

"I'll do my best, Uncle," Enjolras answers.

Grantaire saunters over, hands tucked into the sleeves of his elegant robes. "Are you ready to leave, princeling?" he asks, his grin a little too sharp for comfort.

"Ready as he'll ever be," Georges says mildly. "Now, do tell my favorite niece that she must come and visit me, or else I shall come by in a year to visit her—and she knows that I make a terrible guest."

Grantaire laughs. "Very well, Uncle Georges. I shall be sure to inform her." He glances at Enjolras and tilts his head towards the gateway to the mortal realm. "After you, my friend."

Enjolras gives a curt nod and walks through it without a backwards glance. He is prideful and stubborn and flawed in many other ways, but he is no coward—he faces the consequences of his actions with his head held high.

Let Ereshkigal do her worst. He will not break.

* * *

There are many ways to enter the Land of the Dead, but they all lead to one gate.

Grantaire chooses to take them to Erkalla through a way located in one of Ereshkigal's few temples—the goddess of death is not a popular one, and the houses built in her name are scarce. Still, Grantaire greets the wizened old priestess in charge of her temple with a ready smile and a fond kiss to her cheek.

"Siduri," he says. "How have you been?"

"Well enough," she cackles. "I'll not be visiting our Lady just yet." She is bears the stole of a seer as well the staff of a high priestess, so Enjolras knows she must have frequent dealings with the god of fate, speaking with Grantaire to learn and guide the destinies of mortals. She turns curious eyes on Enjolras and asks, "Who is this?"

"I am Nergal," he replies, taking her hand and kissing the back of it respectfully.

"Nergal." She raises her painted brows in faint surprise. "The god of plagues? So she has summoned you at last, has she?"

Enjolras frowns, confused, but Grantaire coughs and sweeps aside the curtain leading to the Underworld. "Yes, and she's very anxious to meet him," he says.

"Hmm. I can see why," Siduri answers, eyeing Enjolras appreciatively.

Enjolras can feel his face flush.

She laughs again and pats him on the cheek, drawing him a little closer. "Take the advice of an old woman: embrace your fate, young godling. You and my goddess shall both be happier for it."

He would ask her what she means, but Grantaire has already passed through the portal, so he follows after, the priestess of Death's knowing gaze lingering on his back.

* * *

Enjolras meets the god of thresholds, the guardian of the gateway to Erkalla, a tall, quiet man with hair the color of sand, skin the color of the night sky, and eyes an unsettling, changeable gray. He introduces himself as Neti, and Enjolras gives his name as Nergal.

"Pfft. I don't understand why you don't all just go by your personal names—it's not like Gavroche won't just blurt them out when he has the chance," Grantaire says, rolling his eyes.

Neti frowns. "Personal names are a precious thing and must be earned. Names have power, Namtar."

"Grantaire," the other god insists, taking a swig from the never-empty leather flask he carries around with him. "The kid already knows mine."

Neti gives him a disgruntled look before turning to Enjolras. "This way, please."

He proceeds to lead them through a complicated labyrinth of paths and streets. Enjolras can feel the weight of a hundred hostile stares as they walk, and he hears more than a few hisses and growls from the shadows when he passes.

"Scared, godling?" Grantaire smiles, the curve of it cruel and cunning. "You should be. We don't take kindly to stupid young bucks that insult our Lady."

Neti holds up a hand. "Peace, Grantaire."

Grantaire snorts but quiets, and they make their way in silence to the palace.

And palace it is—it is a sprawling, intimidating citadel carved from black stone, with several lush courtyards teeming with rare and fantastic plant life, and room after room filled with precious jewels and metals, fine pottery and intricate tapestries, beautifully crafted furniture and lovingly carved statues. Its entryways and windows are inlaid with lapis lazuli and gold, it walls decorated by colorful murals, and its doors made from the finest aged cedar. Every inch of it is meant to convey wealth, beauty, and a sense of sheer power.

It is not the grandest dwelling Enjolras has ever stepped foot in, but it's pretty damn close.

Neti and Grantaire leave him in the great hall that houses Ereshkigal's infamous throne of iron and silver, and tell him to wait.

He stands patiently in the middle of the hall, hands clasped behind his back, and reminds himself of his goals:

One—buy himself time.

Two—survive.

Three—beat the Queen of Erkalla at her own game.

He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.

Yes. He can do this.

* * *

She is surprised by the man who awaits her in her throne room.

"_This_ is the god of plagues? _This _is Uncle Jean and Aunt Fantine's son?" she asks, raising her brow at Grantaire, who rolls his eyes in response.

"Of course it is," he says. "I wasn't going to bring you the wrong culprit to punish. What else were you expecting?"

"Not this." She frowns as she surveys the young deity. For some reason, she was expecting someone more like Montparnasse, an arrogant godling with a swagger in his step and contempt in his eyes, possessing a manner that made it clear that he believed he could do no wrong and a sense of expectation that the world would hand itself to him on a silver platter.

The man in the throne room is…definitely a man, for one thing. Slightly shocking to think that he was actually the younger sibling of the little baby she'd once sung lullabies to—though it _has_ been three or so centuries, so she supposes it's her own fault for imagining Jean and Fantine's children as exactly that—children. Still, she would have found it easier to summon him before this if she'd actually seen his face.

And what a face! Grantaire was right; he does favor Jean with his bone structure, all high cheekbones, a straight nose, and a strong, square jaw, though the full, generous mouth is all Fantine. The hair is as golden as his sister's, and the eyes a deep blue, the same color as the lakes in ancient volcanic craters, a perfect mirror of the sky, devoid of life and nearly untouched.

They're striking eyes, she'll admit.

It is the way he holds himself that truly gives her pause, however. He has the confident, relaxed posture of a man who commands any room he stands in, back straight and shoulders set, feet braced apart. There is an air of profound stillness about him, too, a sense of self-control and power, neatly leashed—rare for one so young, as the gods count years.

She wonders why a man with such strength does not have it in him to recognize and respect her own.

No matter. He will learn.

She signals Grantaire with a flick of her hand, and he nods and bows before leaving. Soon, her court begins entering the throne room: the demons and the demigods, the righteous souls of the dead and the unforgiving deities of destruction, all the denizens of Erkalla that have given their oaths to Death herself.

They are strong enough to lay siege to the world above and win. They are powerful enough to challenge the realm of the gods and leave them scarred. They are her people, and they are mighty and glorious.

The godling doesn't even flinch as they enter, though he must feel the anger and hostility being directed his way. He is brave, this one, brave and foolish—brave to face them without trembling. Foolish to even be facing them in the first place.

She feels a moment's regret that it must end like this. Her realm could have been his home; she could have been welcoming him instead of damning him to the pits of punishment.

But she remembers the last time she let her heart soften, the last time she let mercy stay her hand—

* * *

_"Leave my house! You murdered my consort!" Azelma cries._

_"Six months! I keep him only for six months, and I punish him for his disloyalty to you," Éponine says, arms open and pleading. "Sister, please, I am sorry—"_

_"You are sorry? Sorry? You_ imprisoned_ me!" she shrieks._

_"I had to! It is the law!" Éponine says, anguished. "I spared you as soon as I could, but the balance had to be met—my duties demanded—"_

_"Oh, so your duties matter to you more than I do?" Azelma says scornfully. "Heavy is the head upon which lies the crown, I suppose."_

_"Do not lay all the blame on me. You tried to steal my throne," Éponine says, beginning to get angry._

_"And you stole my lover! I wanted you to see how I felt, and that cold, cursed throne is the only thing you seem to care about, so what else what I supposed to steal?" her sister spits out._

_"That's not true," she says, frustrated. "I love you, sister—"_

_"Liar! Get out! Get out and never come back!" Azelma yells._

_"You don't mean that—"_

_Azelma stands and slaps her across the face, sending her to her knees. She is weaker here, far from her power, and she is completely at her sister's mercy._

_"Zelma, please," she begs, crawling forward, blood spilling into her eye and obscuring her vision. She stretches out a hand to touch her sister's sandal. "Please, I never meant to hurt you, you have to believe me."_

_"Don't call me that! Don't you dare call me that! I am Inanna, goddess of war and lust and battle, and you will show me the respect I deserve! Now leave my house! Ereshkigal, breaker of promises, is not welcome in my home! And she is not welcome in any other home that holds oaths to me! Hear me, She Who Rules Alone—from this day forth, I have no sister!"_

_Éponine leaves, the broken pieces of her heart gathered in her hands, and weeps bitterly that the price of mercy proved so high._

* * *

In the present, Éponine sets her mouth in a grim line and lets coldness seep into her eyes. No, no one can say she has not learned her lesson well.

She throws her shoulders back, holds her head high, and throws open the doors to the throne room.

Let the godling look on her and tremble.

She Who Rules Alone shows mercy but once, and he has had his chance and lost it.

* * *

**Endnote: We hope you liked it! Please review and tell us what you think. :)**


	4. He Who Stands His Ground

**Author Note: Welcome to the fourth chapter of ****_In the Land Between Rivers, I Have Loved You_****! Thank you for reading!**

**Disclaimer: I am not Victor Hugo. I do not own the book, the musical, or the film, and I certainly do not own the characters.**

* * *

**Chapter Four: He Who Stands His Ground**

* * *

He does not know what to expect. He only knows that he must be ready for whatever comes.

The denizens of Erkalla look at him with hooded eyes, secrets hidden in their gaze, anger in the tilt of their heads, power in their steps. They are different from the gods and mortals he has known in the upper world—more serious, more somber, and infinitely more controlled. They're not the wild, tempestuous beasts the younger gods would whisper about when speculating on what the land of the dead was like.

"Savage things," they would mutter. "Even Inanna couldn't conquer the Underworld; what uncultivated brutes they must be, to hold oaths to She Who Rules Alone."

Enjolras wishes his peers had been right; a brute was a mindless force of nature. These were thinking, rational beings that looked like they had a grudge to bear and the means to attain their revenge very shortly. They were viciousness leashed and fury tempered, and far, far more dangerous because of it.

Still, he stands and faces them, because he is a god equal to any here in this hall of the Queen of the Dead.

Grantaire strolls into the hall, as indolent as ever, and walks over to chair placed at the right hand of the massive, imposing throne. He takes his place and smiles coldly at Enjolras.

"This is gonna be good," he says, and several of the other gods chuckle in anticipation.

Neti swoops in quietly, appearing to materialize out of thin air, and he takes the seat to the left of the throne.

"Where's Sumuqan?" he asks Grantaire.

"How in Anu's name am I supposed to know? You know that kid hates ceremonies. He's probably hanging out in the Ever-Dawning Fields with Aurore and his other cattle. He can come and piss on the corpse when it's over," Grantaire drawls, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling.

Neti sighs and shoots him a mildly cross look. "Stop trying to scare our guest."

"Scare him?" Grantaire laughs. "Kid's got ice in his veins—look at him, he isn't even trembling. Our Lady will fix that, of course."

Neti only shakes his head, and the hall falls into a restless, anticipatory silence.

They don't have long to wait.

The doors to the hall are thrown open with a bang, and instantly every person in the room gets to their feet and sweeps into a bow, gods and spirits of immense power bowing to the one who rules over them all.

It's a sight to behold, and Enjolras keeps half an eye on them as he turns around to face the queen he challenges.

The sight of her knocks the breath out of his lungs, freezes the blood in his veins, and stops his heart in its tracks.

She's perfectly formed, limbs long and shapely, breasts high, waist curved, hips sweetly rounded. She's taller than most women as well, the top of her head perhaps coming to his nose. Her smooth skin is a warm, deep golden-brown, and her mouth a bold, passionate red, as lush and full as ripe pomegranates. She has hair as black as shadows, eyes as dark and cutting as an obsidian blade.

She is dressed in robes as red as blood, made from cloth so finely woven it's almost transparent. They cover her from her shoulders to her toes, though they give tantalizing hints at her body underneath, the suggestion of nudity more erotic than any inch of bare skin she may have chosen to reveal.

She wears strings of agates between her breasts, carnelian stones at her ears, and lapis lazuli on her fingers. Beautifully-wrought leaves made of silver dust her hair, copper bangles engraved with words of power adorn her wrists and ankles, and a golden crown rests upon her proudly lifted head.

She strides forward with a sinuous, elegant grace, confidence in every step and the hint of danger in every movement.

She is the most beautiful woman he has ever seen, but it is not her beauty which shakes him to his very bones.

It is the fact that he knows her. It is the fact that she is his every desire come to life before him. She is the woman from his dreams, the woman he has waited centuries to meet.

For a moment, just a moment, he is tempted to go to her, press his lips to hers, laugh loudly with relieved joy at his discovery that she is no figment of his imagination, and tell her softly that he is here, he has come, he is sorry for having kept her waiting for so long.

But in his dreams, her eyes were always warm and welcoming, filled with teasing, bold desire as she runs her hands over his body, her touch as familiar and loving as it is sensuous. In his dreams, she knows him better than he knows himself.

The eyes of the woman before him hold no warmth, no welcome, no desire at all except perhaps a longing to see his blood spilled upon the floor. There is no recognition, no intimate knowledge in her dark, sultry gaze, and he is abruptly reminded of who it is she truly is.

She is the goddess he insulted, merciless Death who cares not for mortals or gods, his enemy in this game of theirs that he entered so blindly—and if he wishes to see his family again, he cannot succumb to the urge to fall to his knees and offer himself to her.

So he stands his ground and does not bow before her, the only person in the room to meet her eyes. There's not a flicker in his expression to give away his instinctive longing—she is a goddess like any other, worse than some, he believes, and if he will not bend knee to Anu, he will not bend knee to her.

"Welcome to Erkalla, Nergal, god of death, Harbinger of Plague, Bringer of Oblivion," she says, her voice low and husky. "Welcome to my realm."

He bends his head, just the tiniest bit, and she takes note of the motion and quirks her mouth.

She walks around him, circling him, eyes surveying every inch of his body, and he wonders if this is how prey feels, in the last seconds before the predator pounces. She stops right in front of him, and though she is a little less than a handspan shorter than him, the way she holds herself makes it seem as if she is looking down on him.

"It's an impressive kingdom," he says cautiously. That seems neutral enough.

"Have you nothing else to say for yourself, boy?" she asks, and he bristles slightly. He's a second-generation god, has lived for dozens of mortal lifetimes, and is _far _more mature than anyone else his age—he isn't some "boy."

"No," he gets out through gritted teeth. "It seems unnecessary. You already know what I think about you."

She steps closer to him, and he catches the heady scent of pomegranate and jasmine. "Oh, I know," she says.

Then she slaps him full across the face.

"How dare you?" she thunders. "How dare you stand there and judge me? I am your liege lady! I am the Queen of Death herself and at the very least I deserve your respect!"

He spits blood onto her floor and the gathered crowd gasps, first in shock, then in anger.

One did not dirty the hall of death lightly—but then Enjolras was never one to back down from a challenge.

"I see nothing to respect; merely a goddess who would rather stay in her realm and be worshipped by souls too weak to do anything else than use her power to help those still living," he says coldly.

She gives him a wide-eyed, incredulous look, and he feels a moment of satisfaction at having shocked her—at least until she throws her head back and laughs in his face.

"Oh," she says, reaching out to lay her hand on his jaw, "what spirit you have. I shall so enjoy breaking it." She leans forward and strokes her thumb across his lips—and this is the chance he was waiting for.

He turns his head and bites down hard on her thumb, his mouth filling with the coppery taste of her blood.

She pulls back and hisses, and the entire hall erupts in a cacophony of outraged screeches and shouts, Grantaire unsheathing his sword and Neti summoning his spear.

"Silence!" Ereshkigal yells. She holds her hand to her lips and sucks on the cut; when she pulls it away, the wound is healed as if it never existed.

He swallows heavily, the heady taste of her divine power burning his throat as it goes down.

"Do you know what you have done?" she asks, voice low and terrible to behold.

"Bartered myself a bargain, my Lady," he replies. "I've tasted your blood; I'm a full citizen of your realm now, by the laws of the dead, and as a god of the Underworld, I'm entitled to leave it if I survive the tests."

"Those are the ancient laws. No one knows of them any longer. How did you even—" She cuts herself off, eyes narrowing in furious realization. "Enki."

He gives her a sharp, single nod.

"Ha!" She strides away, her red dress trailing like tongues of fire in her wake, and she seats herself on her throne, leaning back on it almost languidly, one arm tossed over the back, the other resting on her crossed legs. "Ha! So you seek to play games with me, do you, godling?"

"Play them—and win," he says.

"You _really_ think you can last a year and a day in my realm without eating or drinking or partaking in any aspect of my hospitality?" she queries.

"I'm a god. Food and drink isn't necessary."

"How little you have known of hunger, then, to dismiss it so lightly," she states, eyes dark with some indefinable emotion. She strokes the arm of her throne lightly, staring at him speculatively. "Very well, godling. We'll play it your way. Self-torture is penalty enough." She waves her hand, smirking. "You're dismissed, my people. Out little captive has chosen the means of his punishment himself—would that all our prisoners be so accommodating."

The crowd chuckles lightly in amusement and slowly they begin to leave the room, until none are left but Ereshkigal, Neti, Grantaire, and himself.

"Neti," Ereshkigal says. "Give him a room and show him the way so he can refresh himself before dinner. It wouldn't do for our latest pet to get lost."

And with that, he is led away, and he must force himself not to look back to catch one final glimpse of the red-garbed goddess on her silver throne, dark eyes watching him as he leaves, the touch of her gaze heavy as a secret.

* * *

The room set aside for him is spacious, decorated plainly with dark colors and low furniture to suit masculine tastes. It's also oddly familiar, and Enjolras runs a questioning hand over wooden carvings whose design he definitely recognizes.

"This is where your father stayed when he was living here," Neti explains. "My Lady set it aside just the way it was when he and your mother and sister left."

Enjolras nods stiffly, pretending that his throat isn't closing up at the thoughtfulness of the gesture.

Or is it thoughtfulness? Perhaps it is one more game Ereshkigal seeks to play with him.

"Did she choose this room for me?" he asks, suspicious.

"Yes," Neti answers carefully. "She meant to reprimand you first, of course, but as her guest you would have been entitled to a place while you found your footing here in Erkalla."

"Really?" he asks skeptically. "Was not my place in the pits of punishments? Is Ereshkigal not known for her lack of mercy?"

Neti's lips thinned. "I am beginning to see why Grantaire dislikes you so. Our Lady is not what others have painted her to be; you know nothing of the woman of whom you speak."

"Then how would she have rebuked me had I chosen not to challenge her?" Enjolras demands.

"She would have whipped you with her own hand—twenty lashes dealt by Death herself to punish the insult done to her name. A fair punishment, with no lasting damage, except perhaps to your pride, if it proved that shallow. Dumuzi certainly didn't like the scars that ruined his looks," Neti says, a touch derisively. "But then he always was a vain one."

Enjolras remembers the ugly welts left on the god of spring's back—scars on gods were rare, but Dumuzi and Inanna bore them, Inanna's curving around her left arm. Both had earned them by incurring Ereshkigal's infamous wrath.

"I could have borne it," Enjolras said softly. "I could have borne fifty lashes if that's what it took to satisfy her monstrous pride. What I could not have borne was staying in this cold, cruel realm for the rest of my existence. What I could not have borne was knowing my mother wept for me, that my sister mourned my loss, that they my family would never see me again."

Neti looks at him silently, an odd light of compassion in his eyes. "Your fate was decided long ago. Refusing to pay homage to my Lady was just the catalyst."

Enjolras scoffs. "Please. Only mortals are bound to follow Grantaire's whims—gods make their own future."

Neti shakes his head and exits the room, leaving Enjolras to his own thoughts.

And Enjolras closes his eyes as her voice whispers in his mind:

_Oh, little one. You were always fated to be here—you were always fated to be mine._

_Not if I have anything to say about it_, he thinks grimly, and strides to the clothes chest to pick his battle garb. _You will not keep me here. You will not win._

* * *

Éponine narrows her eyes as she observes the godling seated across from her.

The dinner itself is a small one, consisting of just Nergal and herself. Her young cousin has chosen to wear red to match her, stubbornly refusing to dress in less vibrant tones, as befitting a lesser god, tacitly continuing his rebellion even in his clothing.

Her cooks have outdone themselves, and servants dressed in elegant black robes bring in golden platter after golden platter piled high with delicious food: fresh fruits such as sweet oranges, ripe dates, luscious grapes, rich cantaloupe, and fragrant pomegranates as appetizers. There are earthy cheeses, light flatbreads, hearty stews, delicate soups, the finest of meats cooked to perfection—succulent roasted boar, quails glazed with sauces, roasted lamb laid out on beds of leafy greens.

He turns his nose up at all of them, stoically refusing to even let so much as a muscle twitch in response, and barely seeming impressed with the wealth of her table, the rarity of the bounty she can provide.

In return, Éponine ignores him and his stubborn silence, eating with gusto and using her hands to tear her food apart.

When she licks the sauce from her fingers, she hears a strangled sort of groan coming from his direction, and looks up to see his eyes fixated on her lips and the way she's sucking the tips of her fingers.

_Ah_, she thinks to herself.

She picks up an orange and peels it, then brings the flesh to her lips, biting down slowly. "Mmm," she moans slightly as the sweet, slightly tart flavor bursts in her mouth. A drop of juice trails down her chin, and Éponine can feel his eyes tracking it, can almost sense his desire to reach out and lick it off her skin.

If he will not fall prey to food, she can just as easily tempt him with her body. The sooner he yields, the better. She will not be bested by some arrogant young boy, challenged day after day in her own realm—no. She will end this now.

She spends the rest of the feast eating her meal as erotically as possible, moaning with every bite, savoring each succulent morsel, letting her lips and hands and voice seduce him by sight and sound alone, watching as his fists clench tighter and tighter, until his knuckles are white with strain.

She smiles to herself, hiding it behind a hand lazily wiping her mouth. Oh, yes, she has caught him now.

She is Death—all men desire her. All men are drawn to her, and this one is no different from any other.

He will kneel before her soon enough.

* * *

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	5. She Who Knows Bitterness

**Author Note: Welcome to the fifth chapter of ****_In the Land Between Rivers, I Have Loved You_****! Thank you for reading!**

**Disclaimer: I am not Victor Hugo. I do not own the book, the musical, or the film, and I certainly do not own the characters.**

* * *

**Chapter Five: She Who Knows Bitterness**

* * *

The minute the meal ends, he flees the room, and she smirks, languidly rising to follow after him.

He gets lost, of course, standing in the middle of the hallways looking deliciously frustrated.

"Follow me," she says. "Unless you wish to make your bed here on the marble floor."

Glancing at her suspiciously, he shakes his head and follows, and she leads him through her vast halls, her glittering palace.

Again, he seems wholly unimpressed with it all, and she wonders what it would take to move him. She is certain she is about to find out.

She stops in front of his rooms and opens the door.

"Thank you," he says stiffly, giving her a little nod of acknowledgement.

"Why do you find it so hard to show respect?" she muses aloud.

"Why do you find it so hard to do things that would earn it?" he retorts.

She tamps down her first initial, heated response. What does he know of her and her responsibilities? Nothing. His words were nothing to her, and his punishment would come soon enough—though considering his arrogance, she certainly planned to up it from twenty lashes to forty.

Instead of striking him as she wishes to, she smiles. "Oh, I can think of a few things I can do that would earn your…respect." She steps closer to him and watches him inhale sharply, breathing her scent in. Her smile widens. "Would you like me to show you?"

His head is tilted down, his lips mere inches from her own, and his pupils are blown wide with lust; they're not even touching yet, but she can practically feel him vibrating with longing.

_Yes_, she thinks, and closes her eyes.

"No," he tells her hoarsely.

She opens her eyes and steps back in surprise. "What?"

"No," he says again, walking across the threshold of his room and gripping the door hard before turning to face her. "I do not want you as a lover. I do not want you to share my bed. So if that will be all, good night, Your Highness." He moves to shut the door in her face.

She stops him, making sure not to cross the threshold, because his rooms belong to him now. She knows the rules of hospitality well. He has to invite her in—it is the same reason she cannot kiss him or even touch him without his permission, why she has not simply pushed him to the wall and seduced him with more than words.

"You are lying," she tells him instead, snarling. "You want me." She can see the proof of his desire, stark against his robes, can practically scent his lust—and he dares, _dares _to claim otherwise?

"I do not," he replies firmly, knuckles nearly white with strain against the dark wood of the door. "Will you force yourself on me? I heard you had little in common with your sister, but she takes men to her bed whether they will or no, and I suppose I should have expected no better from you—"

"Enough!" she yells, slamming the door shut herself and striding down the hallway, the walls shaking with the force of her anger and the ground shuddering with every step.

Deep inside her belly, the bitterness of rejection—_not good enough, never good enough, never wanted, __**why**__ was she never wanted?_—settles in side by side with the constant ache of loneliness.

She Who Rules Alone, indeed.

* * *

Behind the closed door, Enjolras throws himself facedown upon the bed and tries to calm the frantic beating of his heart, the trembling of his limbs.

_Why?_ he asks himself silently. _Why did I have to find her _now_, of all times? Why does she have to be Queen of the Underworld?_

_Why did I have to make her hate me?_

Turning her away had been the hardest thing he'd ever done, when all he'd truly wished to do was pull her close, slant his mouth over hers, and lose himself in her body, let her take everything he had to offer and more, let her gorge her lust on him the way she'd gorged her hunger at her table.

But that way lay madness, lay despair, lay loss, and Enjolras is no fool to be led by the desires of his body. He will stand by his word and his beliefs—she has not earned his respect and he will _not_ bed down with a goddess who turns a deaf ear to her humblest worshippers, who spends no time amongst the people she serves.

He will not.

(No matter how much he wants to.)

* * *

That night, he dreams of her, and like always, he wakes up hard and aching and filled with longing.

It is so much worse now that he knows that she's real—now that he knows his longing could be so easily satisfied.

When Uncle Georges warned him that the challenge would more than likely test him beyond his endurance, he thought the older god was underestimating him.

But he'd been right. This is torture.

And he has three hundred and sixty-five more days of it to endure.

* * *

The days pass and they fall into a pattern.

He wanders her palace, spending time in her gardens and her libraries, doing his best to avoid her, and at breakfast and lunch she does her best to find where he is resting and has her servants set up her meals where he is sure to pass by and be tempted.

He does not yield, however, and resolutely walks past, ignoring the gnawing hunger in his gut and the burning thirst in his throat.

Dinner, however, is an occasion he cannot avoid, and every night she devours a lavish banquet in front of him—sometimes with Grantaire and Neti as fellow guests, but more often just the two of them alone, her dark eyes watching him knowingly as she licks her lips and sucks her fingers clean.

Afterwards, she escorts him to his room or her own bedchambers, makes her offer, and grins at him when he turns her down.

"There is always tomorrow," she says. "You will have to say yes sometime, little one."

"Never," he tells her.

Her eyes gleam with amusement. "So they all say," she answers, walking away with a sway in her step. "So they all say."

_And they are always wrong_, goes unsaid, but Enjolras hears it anyway.

* * *

After a week, Neti invites him to play the Royal Game of Ur with him, and he accepts. There is nothing else to do here in Erkalla, since he is cut off from the mortal world and cannot attend to his worshippers, so anything to stave off the boredom is welcome.

Soon, their games become a daily thing.

Enjolras has won an average of three out of every five games so far, and is shocked to have lost even a few; amongst the younger gods, his strategy is equal to none. Neti laughs and admits he is only the fifth most talented player in Erkalla and that if Enjolras wants a challenge, he should seek the others out.

"Who are they?" Enjolras asks.

"Well, the fourth best is Sumuqan," Neti answers.

"The god of cattle? He's one of Uncle Georges's sons, correct?" Marius had mentioned his older brother lived in the Underworld, and Enjolras recalled hearing his name now and again.

"Yes—so it wouldn't do to underestimate him," Neti replies.

"I won't," Enjolras promises. "And the others?"

"Grantaire is the third. Gilgamesh is the second. And the first…" Neti trails off.

"The first…?" Enjolras prompts.

"Don't challenge the first to a game. You'll lose," Neti says, evading his question. "Now, would you like another game?"

Enjolras lets it slide for now; he figures he has a year to find out who the best player in Erkalla is and challenge them.

* * *

He gets his first taste of jealousy one and a half months into his captivity.

He is making his way towards Neti's wing to keep him company for lunch; like always, he has to pass Ereshkigal's dining hall, which she purposefully keeps stocked with food at all times to tempt him.

Most of the time, she's there, too, sending him a knowing glance as she eats her meal alone.

He expects today to be no different.

He's wrong.

Ereshkigal is there, the food is there, and it looks like the scene is going to play out like always—then a horn suddenly sounds and black hunting hounds bound into the hall, barking at Ereshkigal excitedly.

She immediately gets up and laughs, striding forward with her arms outstretched to meet a their master—a tall, lean, young man with smooth, light brown skin, messy yellow hair, and a cocky grin on his admittedly pretty face.

Enjolras can tell that he's a powerful god—a god of spring, perhaps, strange for an inhabitant of the Underworld, but the vibrancy and light to his aura declare him so.

The kiss he places on Ereshkigal's cheek indicates that he is a favorite of hers, and the way she responds by holding him close suggests that he most likely earned her favor in her bed.

The smile on her face—radiant, ecstatic, joyfully pleased—is one Enjolras has never seen her wear before.

She has never been more beautiful.

It twists something unpleasantly in his gut, and he strides away towards Neti's quarters without a backward glance, telling himself all the while that it's a good thing that Ereshkigal has another lover—she will stop her advances now, and surely that's all he wanted.

Surely.

* * *

He loses all three games to Neti.

"Is something the matter?" the god of gates asks, genuinely puzzled.

"Nothing is the matter," he responds curtly.

They both know he's lying.

* * *

That night, when he's summoned to dine with Ereshkigal, he wears black and red, the colors of war and anger.

Neti and Grantaire are waiting outside the hall when he arrives, and standing with them is the young god from earlier.

"Ah, Nergal," Neti says, smiling. "I'm pleased to introduce Sumuqan, the god of cattle and herdsmen."

The young man bows, and there's something in the lithe, graceful movement that's reminiscent of Ereshkigal, a blatant echo of their closeness, of the influence one lover has upon the other. "Pleased to meet you," he says, his tone playful and mischievous.

"Pleased to meet you," Enjolras says, nodding once in reply.

"Boy, they really aren't teaching manners anymore, are they?" Sumuqan says, elbowing Grantaire. "'Course, Father likes him well enough, Marius is friends with him, and our Lady hasn't killed him so far, so maybe he's got something better to offer than manners, which is more than I can say for half our peers." He flashes a bright, ready grin at Enjolras, though the clever gleam in his eyes makes it clear that he's Georges's offspring. "Neti tells me you're good enough to beat him at the Royal Game. Fancy a match now and then?"

"Of course," Enjolras says politely. He silently promises to beat him in every game they play.

The other god's grin widens. "Good. You'd better call me Gavroche, then. Much easier that way."

Before Enjolras can answer that he will do no such thing, the doors to the hall swing open and Gavroche strides right in.

"Missed me, my Lady?" he asks, spreading his arms wide.

Ereshkigal gifts him with another achingly beautiful smile and lifts one hand for him to kiss. "Terribly," she says fondly, laying her fingers against his cheek. "You haven't been home much lately."

Enjolras grits his teeth at the exchange of affection and walks toward his customary seat, the one opposite of Ereshkigal's.

"Hey!" Gavroche says indignantly. "That's my spot."

Enjolras turns around and glares at him, then resolutely sits down.

The other god's mouth drops open. "Hey!"

Ereshkigal laughs and indicates the chair beside her. "Sit here and let our guest keep his place of honor. Keep me company instead, beloved."

_Beloved_. Her voice seems to caress the word. Enjolras is certain he's never hated a sound more—he's certainly never hated a man more than he hates this "beloved" of hers.

Grantaire sees his expression and snorts.

"Are you laughing at me?" Gavroche demands, pouting slightly.

"I'm laughing_ because_ of you, certainly," Grantaire replies.

Gavroche pouts more. In response, Ereshkigal takes a piece of fruit from her plate and offers it to him. "Ignore him," she commands. "He's just teasing you."

Gavroche sticks his tongue out at Grantaire before taking the fruit. "You're just jealous because I'm our Lady's favorite," he says around the bite of food.

"_I'm _not the jealous one," Grantaire retorts. "And how old are you? Five decades?"

"Seven centuries," Gavroche says acidly.

Grantaire grins, Ereshkigal laughs, Neti chuckles slightly, and even Enjolras is moved to a small smirk.

"How about you, pretty boy?" Gavroche asks, turning genuinely curious eyes on Enjolras. "How old are you?"

"Five centuries," he replies.

"Five? _Five?_ You're younger than me! How is that possible? You look so serious and—and—and—_old_."

"You were there when his older sister was born; of course he's younger than you," Neti says.

"He's a god of death. Of course he looks more mature than a measly god of spring," Grantaire points out at the same time.

Gavroche rolls his eyes. "He's still just a baby, though. No wonder Aunt Fantine wanted to keep him longer. He's not even old enough to have had a tumble yet."

Grantaire snorts again. "Oh, he's plenty old enough, not that he seems interested. Our Lady's been plying her charms all this time and he hasn't taken the bait even once."

"Ewwww," Gavroche says, paling. "Ewwwww, Épo—Ereshkigal, he's still a kid, why are you trying to seduce him?"

Enjolras feels his face heat in embarrassment and anger. "I had my coming-of-age centuries ago," he snaps out. "I am _not_ a child." He'd been expecting jealousy and antagonism from this other god, as he had seen enough of Inanna's love triangles to predict that he might be seen as a threat; he _hadn't_expected complete dismissal and a casually blasé attitude. Apparently Gavroche is secure enough in his mistress's affections to understand that the game she is playing with Enjolras is merely that—a game.

Gavroche's brows raise in surprise at his vehemence. "My apologies," he says. "I meant no offense."

"Apologies accepted," Enjolras says stiffly.

"Still…" Gavroche continues, sending a querying glance in Ereshkigal's direction, "…it's rare for you to pay court to a godling. Didn't you say they bored you?"

Ereshkigal grins. "Most of them do, yes, but this one's feisty enough to keep my interest."

Enjolras scowls. "You may keep your interest to yourself." He fights the urge to point out that Gavroche himself is barely two centuries older than him—he counts as a godling as well.

"I like this one!" Gavroche says, grinning.

Before Enjolras can say anything in reply, Neti distracts the younger god with a question and conversation turns to other topics as they eat, the four of them clearly a familiar, close-knit unit.

They remind him of his own family, and Enjolras feels a sudden, intense sadness rise up in him, and he looks down at his plate before pushing away from the table and excusing himself.

He's not at all surprised when, instead of escorting him to his rooms like always, Ereshkigal opts to stay with her lover and her friends in the dining hall that is now filled with the sound of her laughter and happiness.

He tells himself that he's grateful for the reprieve.

(He knows he is the exact opposite.)

* * *

Gavroche is surprisingly difficult to hate, mostly because of how friendly he is, but Enjolras tries anyway.

He fails miserably, although he _does _manage to stay quietly envious. But it is simply impossible to hate someone who takes so much joy in life, who is refreshingly mischievous and unfailingly clever, and who reminds him so much of Courfeyrac sometimes that it hurts.

Gavroche is the first person to show him around Erkalla; Enjolras hadn't even known he was allowed to leave the palace, but Gavroche shrugs and comments that as long as Ereshkigal doesn't expressly forbid something, it means it can be done, a rather different approach to ruling than the one her father has.

The first place he takes him is the Ever-Dawning Fields, the perpetually green and sunny region where his cattle reside. Gavroche introduces him to his favorite cow, one whose coat appears to be made of gold and whose hooves are shining silver, a beautiful creature he affectionately calls Aurore.

Enjolras learns to laze about on the soft grass and watch the cattle as they graze, but soon enough, he is venturing through all of Erkalla on his own, being rather unsuited to Gavroche's herdsman lifestyle.

He visits the villages and towns and cities of the Underworld, makes friends with the spirits of the dead and banters with the demons. Though initially hostile and untrusting towards him, as he persists in working side by side with them, day after day, week after week, they soon adopt him as one of their own.

For the first time in his entire life, Enjolras feels like he belongs somewhere.

It's ironic that it also happens to be the place he has promised to do his best to escape.

* * *

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	6. He Who Learns the Truth

**Author Note: Welcome to the sixth chapter of ****_In the Land Between Rivers, I Have Loved You_****! Thank you for reading.**

**Please note that Gilgamesh, the famed mythological figure, appears in this chapter. All you really need to know about him was that he was kind of a dick until he met his best friend, and then turned Inanna (a.k.a. Azelma) down and she had said best friend killed in convoluted retaliation. He then tried to become immortal and failed. **

**Disclaimer: I am not Victor Hugo. I do not own the book, the musical, or the film, and I certainly do not own the characters.**

* * *

**Chapter Six: He Who Learns the Truth**

* * *

Time passes strangely in Erkalla.

Some regions seem to be in permanent winter, others perpetual spring; hours can pass like seconds in certain parts, and seconds can seem like years in others.

There are villages that consist of no one but children, souls who died far too soon and have yet to let themselves age. Other towns consist of those who like the sedateness of old age and do not mind wearing wrinkled skin. The inhabitants of Erkalla can apparently move between both with no problems at all, though most prefer the eternal youth granted to the dead.

Enjolras soon embeds himself in their daily life, working in the fields, helping to build fences and granaries, assisting in the mills and the craftshops—it's strange, but he feels the closest to human he's ever been, not a god at all, just another citizen of the Underworld.

Gradually, however, all this time spent in her realm, amongst the people she rules, has forced him to reconsider his opinion of Ereshkigal.

For one thing, all her subjects adore her, praise her fairness and care, and talk smugly of her beauty and power. They take pride in her fearsome reputation and seem to indulge her infamous temper, magnanimously accepting it as her due.

"There are worse flaws for a goddess to have," a matronly woman informs him. "She's a good queen, our Lady."

The woman shoots a pointed look in his direction, and he smiles ruefully. They didn't take it well when he first appeared; most of Erkalla's people took his defiance of their ruler as a personal offense, though now they seem to have written it off as an odd quirk, especially since Ereshkigal herself seems "so very fond of him."

(Apparently, they've heard of her attempts to seduce him and interpreted it as "favoritism.")

He's aware that the whole realm knows of their bargain, and the villagers take every opportunity to ply him with food and drink, urging him to accept their hospitality.

"This is the best realm," they tell him. "You'll be happy here."

He quietly but gently refuses.

No matter how right it feels, he knows he doesn't belong here.

* * *

"This realm…" Enjolras starts to say.

"Yes?" Neti asks.

"It's at least equal in size to the land of the living, isn't it?"

Neti nods. "Yes, it is."

Enjolras frowns. "But Ereshkigal is the only ruler? That seems like too much power for one person."

Neti gives him an indiscernible look. "It is," he agrees. "Too much responsibility, as well. She alone is ultimately in charge of the judgments, the running of the courts and councils, the governing of all of Erkalla that you haven't seen because you've spent your time amongst the people instead of in the palace.

"Thankfully, she has the aid of the demons and the minor gods of death. And she has us, of course."

Neti makes a move on the board and continues his explanation.

"Grantaire handles his job of managing the fates of mortals well, and he assists with the judgments—helping to decide who goes where, who's best suited to doing what.

"Gavroche didn't start out as a god of the Underworld—he simply moved here one day after deciding he disliked seeing his favorite cows die, and simply preferred to wait with them here—but as a god of spring he watches over the changing of the seasons and all the animals in the realm. He makes sure the humans properly bury the bones of the creatures they hunt or slay, so that they may come back to life the next day."

Enjolras raises his brows. "You mean Ereshkigal serves the same boar over and over at dinner?"

Neti smiles. "No, I understand the hunters she employs usually catch a different one and rotate."

Enjolras nods and considers his…well, his friend now, he supposes. "And what do you do?"

"I usher souls into the realm and ensure they don't escape. I watch over the transition of those whose time has come to be reborn back into the world of the living. I guard the gates of my Lady, and in all my years as her servant, never once has anyone entered or left before their time," he says.

Enjolras looks at the calm, implacable god, and believes him.

"Who else helps?" he asks.

Neti frowns. "Most of the gods of death—those in charge of famine, war, and sickness, like yourself—most of them used to live at least part of the year here in Erkalla. And when she visited the world above, my Lady would coordinate with them, make sure they were fulfilling their duties.

"Everything changed when Inanna tried to steal her throne. Many of the gods in her jurisdiction also held oaths to her sister, and most sided with Inanna. Those who stayed loyal to my Lady were often unable to come and live in Erkalla permanently, so they were subject to Inanna's cruelty.

"Unless she challenges her sister directly and brings her to the council of the gods, which she refuses to do, they are at a stalemate. My Lady has found that as long as the gods of war and sickness do their job ensuring death, she has enough power to hold everything together here below. It does make it more difficult to find time to visit the world above, of course," Neti says pointedly.

Enjolras frowns. "If Inanna is interfering with her duties, she should have her brought to judgment."

Neti raises his brows. "I understand you have a sister, Nergal—do you think you could bring yourself to ever throw her to the council's mercy, when she is as hated as Inanna is?"

Enjolras's frown deepens.

Neti makes a move. "I win," he announces.

"So you have," Enjolras says, still deep in thought.

Neti begins to put the pieces away, then pauses, staring at Enjolras. "I think we have known each other long enough by now." He extends his hand, palm up. "My name is Combeferre."

Enjolras starts in surprise before taking it. "And mine is Enjolras," he replies.

His friend smiles, white teeth gleaming against black skin. "Enjolras. It suits you."

* * *

That night, when Enjolras attends dinner, he gives Ereshkigal a small nod of acknowledgment before sitting.

He still does not agree with the way she does things—she should still have more care for her worshippers in the land of the living, and the whole situation with Inanna has been horribly handled—but he can admit he was wrong about some things.

She deserves at least a little of his respect. Certainly more than her sister does, at any rate.

The whole table stares at him in surprise, Gavroche nearly choking on his food.

"What in the three realms is going on?" he demands. "Nergal, have you gone crazy?"

"No," Enjolras replies stiffly. "And…" He takes a deep breath. "I think I would actually find it easier if you referred to me by my true name from now on. Please call me Enjolras."

Now it's Grantaire's turn to choke. "Alright, who are you and what have you done with the marble statue?" he says.

Enjolras frowns. "I am hardly a statue—"

"Oh, please, you are surely just as rock-headed as—"

"Enough," Ereshkigal says, eyeing Enjolras curiously for several long moments.

He crosses his arms and meets her gaze defiantly.

"Why the change of heart?" she asks eventually.

"I have been here four months. A whole season has passed. It seems ridiculous to keep standing on formality," he says.

"I'm not talking about your name. I'm asking why you nodded at me. I thought I wasn't good enough to respect," she retorts.

He bristles. "Well, as it turns out I was wrong about that. Slightly at least. You deserve some respect," he says grudgingly.

She smiles at him. "Ha! What changed your mind?"

He looks away. "Your people adore you. Combeferre—"

She starts at his use of her left-hand man's personal name, and shoots a look in the god of gates' direction.

"—defends you. And Gavroche seems quite happy as your lover, so there must be something to like about you," he finishes.

He does not expect the reaction he gets.

Ereshkigal's eyes widen and Gavroche's mouth drops open in shock. "Wait, what?" the latter says. "You think she—you think we—ewwwwww. Eww, no!"

Grantaire is hunched over his plate, laughing, while Neti looks mildly perplexed. "You think Gavroche and our Lady are…lovers?" he asks.

It's Enjolras's turn to look confused. "Aren't they?"

Gavroche gags. "I'm going to vomit. This is the grossest dinner _ever_. I'm going to my room." He stands up and pushes away from the table, walking over to Ereshkigal to give her a kiss on her cheek before turning around and sticking his tongue out at Enjolras. "You see this, moron? This is what we call a platonic kiss." With one last disgusted sniff, he exits the room.

Grantaire and Combeferre soon do the same, the former still snickering and the latter shaking his head, leaving Enjolras alone with Ereshkigal.

The goddess of death places her chin on one hand. "Gavroche is like a brother to me, little one—he is my favorite, yes, but I would no more take him to bed than I would a child."

"Is it because he is so much younger than you?" Enjolras queries in spite of himself. How she chooses her lovers ought not matter to him, but it _does_.

She smirks. "It's not a matter of age so much as maturity. You're half my age, and I'm still courting you, aren't I?"

He flushes and looks down at his empty plate. "Don't mock me. This isn't a courtship; it's a contest of wills."

She settles back in her seat, a small, mysterious smile on her face. "Oh, little one, all the best courtships are contests of wills."

Later, when she invites him to join her in her chambers, leaning seductively against the doorway to his rooms, he hesitates a few seconds longer than usual before saying no.

Her smile widens before leaving him.

After, for the first time since arriving at her kingdom, he gives in to temptation and touches himself until he comes, that knowing, confident smile imprinted on his closed eyelids and her husky voice lingering in his ears.

* * *

About five months into his captivity, Enjolras is helping mediate a conflict between two master craftsmen in one of the villages when the whole crowd suddenly falls to their knees.

"Oh, do get up," a familiar voice says. "I'm only visiting, after all."

The villagers get to their feet and instantly swarm their mistress, exclaiming over how well she looks, touching the hem of her robes reverently, asking after her every need.

Ereshkigal smiles and addresses each of them by name, gracefully bending to pick up a little girl and placing her on her hip as she talks to the child's mother.

She doesn't seem to notice Enjolras at all until he clears his throat, upon which her eyes flick to his before widening.

"What are you doing here?" she asks, running a hand over her hair, which is hanging over her shoulder in a simple braid. Actually, her whole outfit is surprisingly simple: thin sandals, a plain flaxen skirt and breast band, and woven cloth bracelets instead of her usual golden bangles and agate necklaces.

She's fidgeting with one of the bracelets and her gaze keeps darting from him to the villagers.

(If Enjolras didn't know better, he would have thought she was nervous.)

"He's here to mediate between the goldsmith and the jeweler," a woman informs her. "They're arguing about prices again, so he's thinking of inviting all the local craftsmen to simply set the prices throughout the whole region at the next council meeting."

Ereshkigal's brows raise in surprise. "Really? And they would agree to this?"

"Seems so, my Lady," the woman replies, shrugging.

"Hmm," Ereshkigal says, eyeing him speculatively. "Quite the negotiating skills you've got there."

Now it's his turn to fidget. Has he overstepped his boundaries? He was only trying to help.

She sets the little girl down and gestures at him. "Well, carry on. I give you full permission to mediate, so long as my denizens agree and no one comes to any harm."

"I wouldn't do anything if it wasn't in the best interests of the people," he replies.

She raises a brow at him. "Not quite the same as ensuring no one comes to any harm, though, is it?"

He frowns.

"We're well enough, my Lady," the woman interrupts, looking between the two of them anxiously. "We appreciate his help."

"I know, Isura," she says, placing a gentle hand on the woman's shoulder. "And I am glad of it."

With one last enigmatic look at Enjolras, she strides through the crowd, apparently making her way to the next village, or so the inhabitants tell him.

Enjolras gazes after her, unsure of what to make of this new side of her.

* * *

He soon becomes the established mediator in Erkalla, given a place amongst the Lesser Councils that oversee the villages and towns, though they are still subject to the Great Council, consisting of Combeferre, Grantaire, and the other major gods of the Underworld, which is subject to the decisions of Ereshkigal herself.

Still, it is an unexpected position of power, and he is both grateful for it and wary of Ereshkigal's motives for bestowing it upon him.

Through his place on the Lesser Council, he meets Gilgamesh, He Who Sees the Deep, the legendary former king of Uruk, and the second best-player of the Royal Game in Erkalla.

Or, well, the third, after Enjolras bests him in most of their matches (Gavroche and Grantaire have similarly lost to him, though in fairness, he's lost a few games to them as well—the players of the Underworld are _very_ good).

Gilgamesh throws back his head and laughs after losing the third straight game to him. "Well done, my friend—no wonder my Lady wishes to tumble you. She always did prefer her lovers to be clever, and you've even got that curly hair she likes. Easier to grab in bed," he says, grinning.

Enjolras glances sharply at the once-mortal man. Gilgamesh is blessed with god-like stature, being one-third divine himself, and possesses confidence, charm, and devastatingly good looks. He has warm, dark brown skin, eyes the color of cool, shaded earth, and a blinding white smile.

He also has black, lustrous, and _very_ curly hair.

"You've lain with her?" Enjolras asks, more gruffly than he intended.

Gilgamesh's clever grin widens. "Not that it's any of your business, but yes. It's a little ironic, since I tried so hard to gain immortality and avoid ever meeting her, but…well, there's never been a woman to match Death herself, has there? Not for beauty, not for strength, and certainly not for cunning. Inanna could never hope to hold a candle to her."

"You rejected Inanna, didn't you?" Enjolras says.

"So did you, if the rumors are correct. You've got good taste, then."

Enjolras scoffs. "Hardly. Inanna does little to command respect."

"You won't find me arguing that point with you, as she was responsible for my best friend's death. Still, her sister is nothing like her," Gilgamesh says.

Enjolras narrows his eyes. "Really? They're both ridiculously persistent when it comes to pursuing lovers who aren't interested."

"Are they? Inanna thinks nothing of using force; Ereshkigal would slit her own throat before taking another person's choices away. She's had so little choice herself," Gilgamesh says, a touch wistfully.

"What do you mean?" Enjolras asks.

Gilgamesh sighs. "Do you think she chose to rule the realm of the dead? It was a gift, yes, and one she was honored to accept, but nevertheless it was a gift she couldn't refuse—it would have fallen to her sister otherwise. Even in the days before time, anyone could see that Inanna was a goddess of life, ill-suited to Erkalla.

"And if my Lady has a grievous flaw, it's that she loves her sister too much to ever let her be unhappy. So she took on the mantle, and continues to wear it well. Still, heavy is the head which wears the crown, and She Who Rules Alone knows that better than most."

Gilgamesh nods towards Enjolras's full glass, the wine within untouched. "Do you think she was exempt from the old laws? Do you think she could rule death without knowing what it was like? When you took your mantle, you learned to master plague by undergoing it yourself, did you not?"

Enjolras nods slowly. "Yes. And I walked beside a hundred humans who suffered it, and suffered with them."

Gilgamesh grins again, the expression both sharp and sad. "Ereshkigal suffered every death known to mortals for seven years and seven days. She did not eat, she did not drink, she survived your test for seven times the length you must endure it, and she did it while also learning what it felt like to be beaten, burned, drowned, hung, stoned—_every_ death, my friend.

"Of all the gods, she is the closest to mortals; she understands their agony best, and so too does she understand their joy. She knows each and every soul in her realm by name; she greets them herself when first they enter her kingdom.

"You will never meet another worthier of respect, my friend."

He claps Enjolras on the shoulder before leaving the silent god to his thoughts.

* * *

"Did you…?"

Éponine looks up at her guest; it's rare for them to talk when no one else is present. "Yes?"

Enjolras glances at her, then looks away, discomfited. "Did you endure the same test as I when you first became queen?"

Éponine raises her brows in faint surprise. That had been centuries ago, and she can think of no one who would bring it up to Enj—wait. Combeferre had mentioned that he had befriended Gilgamesh. Had her old lover told him of her past?

"Yes," she eventually answers. "I wanted to be able to leave my own realm, and to gain mastery over it I had to prove myself worthy."

She doesn't mention that she'd suffered the tests for seven years, and was tortured daily besides. He had no need to know—

"For seven years?" he persists.

She frowns. "And seven days. Did Gilgamesh tell you this? There's really no call for talking of such things. Every god underwent tests at their coming of age. I was no different."

"But—you suffered death?"

His eyes are looking at her with a strange expression, one that almost looks like pity—

She stands, snarling. "What of it? It doesn't matter now; I endured it. Don't you_dare_ pity me, you arrogant, foolish—"

"Anyone who's suffered so terribly certainly deserves pity," he replies heatedly. "Ereshkigal—"

"Don't call me that! Save your pity for yourself! Those seven years of mortality were nothing to me!"

He frowns. "No wonder the other gods fear you, then, if not even mortality moves you."

She takes her goblet and splashes her wine in his face, then throws it at the wall before striding from the room.

His solemn, compassion-filled blue eyes haunt her even as she leaves.

* * *

She avoids him for weeks, unwilling to subject herself to his damned pity.

"What's wrong?" Combeferre asks, a worried frown upon his face.

"Nothing," she growls.

They both know she's lying.

* * *

The next time she sees him is six months into his captivity, right when summer ends and autumn begins.

Right when Dumuzi, green-eyed god of spring, consort of Azelma, the shepherd-king called Montparnasse, enters her realm.

And, like always, she greets him in blood-red robes, whip in hand, and summons her whole kingdom to watch how she rewards traitors.

(A betrayal of her sister still counts as a betrayal of herself, in Éponine's heart of hearts.

Not even Azelma's hatred will change that.)

* * *

After she's finished with Montparnasse's yearly sentence—and sent him off to be bandaged and then chained in the deepest pits of punishment in Azelma's place for the next six months, and good riddance to the fool—

After that, she meets Enjolras's gaze.

There's no pity in it—not even horror like she was expecting.

Instead, for the first time, there's respect.

(It isn't even grudging.)

"You keep order even though it costs you your sister's hatred," he says, staring at her blood-stained fingers, still wrapped tight around the whip. "Even though you could leave his punishment to others and claim false mercy for yourself, you deal out his sentence with your own two hands."

"Who else would I leave it to?" she asks wearily. This day always leaves her tired.

"Exactly," Enjolras says. He gives her another nod of respect before walking away.

She doesn't know what to make of him, this godling who gazes at her with understanding and acceptance instead of fear, even after seeing her at her worst—this boy who stirs something in her heart that she cannot name each and every time he looks at her with his serious eyes.

She fears few things, but she's beginning to fear his effect on her.

* * *

**Endnote: We hope you liked it! Please review and tell us what you think. :)**


	7. She Who Conquers

**Author Note: Welcome to the seventh chapter of ****_In the Land Between Rivers, I Have Loved You_****! Thank you for reading.**

**Alright, remember when I promised smut way back in chapter one?**

**I'm delivering it now. :)**

**Disclaimer: I am not Victor Hugo. I do not own the book, the musical, or the film, and I certainly do not own the characters.**

* * *

**Chapter Seven: She Who Conquers **

* * *

He cannot get the image of her, standing over Dumuzi's bloody body, whip in hand, out of his mind.

She was fierce and terrible and absolutely _glorious_.

For the first time, Enjolras realizes—_truly_ realizes—who it is that courts him.

She Who Rules Alone is the firstborn of Anu, the foremost of the younger gods, the eldest of the second generation. She walked the world before Anu divided it; she swam the seas before they were named; she danced the sky before the moon ever rose. She saw Enki shape the first mortals; she was there when they drew their last breaths.

She is a goddess of wild things and wilderness, and the first peoples to bend knee to her did so as hunters and gatherers, ever-moving souls who ranged the land and lived by the spear and the arrow and the knife, not the plow or the scythe or the stylus.

Her first worshippers lived by death and knew her well, and when their children and their children's children ceased their wandering and built their cities, they knew better than to forget her or try and tame her. Instead, they built her temples in the darkness and called upon her power only when it was time to meet her face to face.

She had already lived centuries, ruled a realm alone for a millennium, and forgotten more than he ever knew by the time he met her.

Who is he in comparison? The second child of Enlil and Ninlil, one of several gods of death and illness, a powerful deity as the second-generation goes, but certainly no match for a goddess of Ereshkigal's caliber. He is a god of cities, of civilization, of tamed things and orderliness, born after humans lost the blunt force of their ferocity and turned it into the fine, sharp edge of structured violence and war.

He is no one and nothing, just a mild annoyance, some small diversion.

He bites his lip and resists the urge to swear.

He has never known bitterness such as this.

* * *

Autumn comes to the Land Beneath the Land, the grain growing ripe and golden in the fields as the days grow shorter and the nights grow longer.

Éponine visits the Lesser Councils to see how preparations for the harvest are coming along, bracing herself for another day of petty squabbles and circular arguments. The men and women who help her run her realm are intelligent, confident, and capable, but not very cooperative, and she herself lacks the kind of personality to cajole them in working together, being much more suited to leading through sheer force of will.

It's worked well enough for the past thousand years, but she's aware it could be better.

Grantaire is just as hot-headed as she is, though, while Combeferre prefers to quietly organize things in the background, and Gavroche is simply too personable to maintain the slight distance needed in figures of authority.

But there's no one else she trusts enough to give that much power to, so she endures the pointless bickering and the jockeying for prestige and the endless debates, and unleashes her wrath-filled glare upon the lot when she absolutely cannot take any more.

The scene that greets her this year is markedly different.

For one thing, no one looks to be on the verge of storming out.

For another, the council members actually seem to be working together and doing their jobs without any prompting from her.

It's the last thing, however, that gives her pause, because Enjolras sits at the head of the table and appears to be coordinating the whole thing with a charismatic, crackling energy. She is struck by the memory of the first time she saw him, and the way he stood with the air of a man who could command a room simply by breathing.

Apparently, that aura is completely justified.

Éponine gazes at him with new eyes, uncomfortably aware that perhaps he had a point when he claimed to be her equal. A minor, nearly inconsequential point, but a point nevertheless.

She strides into the room and takes her seat at the end of the table, directly across from Enjolras, as always. Every man and woman in the room immediately gets to their feet and bows before settling once again.

Enjolras merely dips his head in a low nod of acknowledgement.

Instead of growing coldly angry, like her subjects are obviously expecting, she gives him a wide grin and waves her hand to indicate that they get on with their work.

(She'll never admit it, but she prefers that one simple nod to a thousand kings and queens falling prostrate before her.)

* * *

After the highly productive session winds down, she casually dismisses the Lesser Council and rises to her feet, leaning against the table and waiting for Enjolras to accompany her to dinner.

Unexpectedly, Gilgamesh comes to stand beside her, rests his hand on the table just scant inches from her hip, and flashes that ready, roguish grin at her—the same grin that once made her knees weak and set her skin aflame.

She'll admit that he's probably her favorite former lover despite being the only (mostly) mortal she's bedded. Gilgamesh is skilled and passionate and actually attentive, which is more than she can say for some of the gods she's lain with. He's also entertaining and amusing company, with an easy laugh and a quick mind to match his quick hands.

And he's always, always willing to warm her bed when she asks.

(She once considered making him her consort, mostly to spite Azelma, but Gilgamesh and fidelity were shaky acquaintances at best, and Éponine was never one to share for long.)

She hasn't asked for decades though, hasn't indulged in sex for years, and she wonders why he's so blatantly offering it now.

"What do you want, Gilgamesh?" she asks, curious.

"Invite me for dinner," he says teasingly, eyes dropping to her lips as he leans in closer. "And maybe we can play a game afterwards, if you're free."

"Oh, I'll be free," she says, grinning despite herself. "But are you sure you want to challenge the best player in Erkalla? You haven't beaten me consecutively in years."

"Well, I've recently improved my game thanks to a dear friend," he replies, glancing over her shoulder and smirking.

Éponine looks behind her to see Enjolras frowning, his hands wrapped so tightly around a scroll that the knuckles are white, and his blue eyes burning with an intense, seething anger.

"What's wrong?" she asks, immediately pushing away from the table and walking towards him, her heart clenching in worry before her brain reminds it that she shouldn't care about him at all. She forces the hand that began reaching out to him back down to her side.

Enjolras meets her gaze, and his fury-filled expression abruptly softens. "Nothing's wrong," he says. "I was just—it's just—you play the Royal Game?"

He looks young and uncertain and nothing at all like the commanding figure he'd been just minutes earlier, and her heart beats a little faster in response.

_Stop it_, she thinks, irritated. _It's just Enjolras, the insolent godling you're trying seduce and subdue._

(Except sometime in the past few weeks, he's become more than that.)

"Yes, " she answers crossly. "I'm the best player in Erkalla, and I'd be the best player anywhere if Uncle Georges didn't cheat."

Enjolras grins, sudden and unexpected, and her knees don't go weak and her skin doesn't tingle, but her heart starts racing like a horse across an open field.

(She doesn't like it. She _doesn't_.)

"Uncle Georges doesn't cheat," Enjolras says. "He's too honorable for that."

Éponine narrows her eyes, but a smile tugs at her lips anyway. "I've only won five games against that man—anyone that good _has_ to cheat."

Enjolras looks impressed. "Five? I've only won three."

"You've _won_? Against Uncle Georges?" she says, incredulous.

Enjolras frowns. "Yes. No need to look so shocked."

She rolls her eyes. "Oh, don't be so touchy, I didn't mean it like that—"

"Well," Gilgamesh says, grinning as both she and Enjolras turn to him, startled, "it appears I won't be able to stay for dinner after all, since you're so obviously…occupied."

He presses a quick kiss to her cheek before sauntering out of the room, whistling a cheeky tune.

Éponine and Enjolras exchange exasperated glances before they realize who it is they're gazing at and simultaneously look away.

Éponine clears her throat. "Do you care to play against me?"

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him nod.

* * *

They play three games that night. She wins all three, and takes great pleasure at his increasing frustration.

He makes her work for it, though, and she finds that she hasn't felt this challenged in years.

"Another round tomorrow?" he asks, and the "yes" comes easily to her lips.

It isn't until she's undressing for bed that she realizes that that was the first time he's ever asked to stay longer in her company.

* * *

The games continue, and slowly, slowly, a tentative friendship begins, built on the simple pleasure of two clever minds clashing night after night, built on debates and conversations and endless discussions, built on the way he fearlessly challenges her to consider new viewpoints, unafraid of her wrath in a way so few people are.

She's changing him, too, though.

She realizes it one night when, instead of continuing a losing strategy, he cedes the game to her.

"You do not wish to continue?" she asks, surprised. He _never_ gives up.

He shrugs and doesn't meet her gaze. "Sometimes it's better to cut your losses. Save your energy to survive and fight another day. Or so a skilled player tells me."

She told him that a few nights ago.

Despite herself, she blushes, and looks resolutely out the window to hide it.

(She misses his longing-filled glance as a result.)

* * *

As autumn nears its peak, the harvest is in full swing, and Enjolras decides to leave the overseers' and accountants' tents to work a week in the fields.

The villagers laugh when he comes to them with his fine robes and soft hands—it's been some time since the early months when he toiled beside them to escape the confines of Ereshkigal's palace.

Still, he's a god, well-formed and leanly muscled, though the men tease him for his pretty face, while the women giggle and invite him to their beds. He politely turns them down, though he accepts the plain skirt and sandals they give him, as well as the sharp scythe and the quick lesson on how to use it.

He cuts a wide swath through the tall, golden wheat, sweat dripping down his brow and bare torso as he works with the other men, the women coming after them to glean the fields.

After the sun sets, he warms himself by the fires and watches as his fellows laugh and talk and down the sweet, rich beer the brewers made, soon breaking off into pairs and leaving to couple in the nearby fields.

It is autumn, the time of ripeness and plenty, and Erkalla's denizens are very, very free with their favors and pleasures, especially after long, hard days pushing themselves to bring in the grain that will keep them fed in winter.

No one can die again in the land of the dead, but hunger is a gnawing, desperate thing that no one likes to endure.

Enjolras has endured it, continues to endure it, and will do so for another three months at least as winter settles over the land, and it is evident in the hollows of his cheeks, the thinness of his limbs, the sharp jut of his bones against his skin.

Every night, he goes to bed with his belly aching and his throat burning, and he has newfound respect for the mortals who endure this terrible hunger, this agonizing thirst—

And greater admiration for the goddess who survived it for seven long days and seven longer years.

* * *

It is the last day of harvest, and Enjolras stands, wiping the sweat from his brow as the sun finally sets, when his breath catches in his throat at the unexpected sight before him.

A woman is walking through the fields, her long, graceful legs left bare by her efficiently short linen skirt, the breast band she wears doing nothing to hide the full, generous curve of her high breasts, her tiny waist, her sweetly rounded hips. Her dark hair is caught in a simple braid, like one any commoner would wear, but its length—reaching just to her thighs—betrays her status.

Not that Enjolras would have needed any of that to recognize her—his heart beats this fast for one person only.

Ereshkigal comes up to each of the workers, offering them a drink the from heavy jug of water she carries atop her head, murmuring low words of encouragement and thanks to each of them in turn.

When she gets to him, a lovely, incandescent smile brightens her whole face. "Greetings, field hand," she says teasingly. She extends the jar towards him. "Care for some water?"

The jar is halfway to his mouth before her soft gasp of surprise reaches his ears.

_What in the name of chaos am I doing?_ he asks angrily.

He upends the jar over his head, letting the cool water dampen his hair and face, carefully keeping his lips closed as he does so.

The ache of thirst burns him, but the appreciative look in her dark eyes as she surveys the drops of water dripping down his torso burns him more.

It's different from how she's looked at him before—as if he's not an arrogant godling, not a young rebel who's defied her, but simply a man she desires.

He lowers the jug so that it rests in front of his hips, trying to hide his body's response to that look. "Thank you," he says stiffly.

From her smirk, she's noticed anyway, and she slowly takes the jar from him, careful not to touch his hands.

In nine months here, the she's only ever touched him twice: when she slapped him, and when she cupped his face and he bit down to take the blood that would make him eligible for this exquisite agony.

No one can say she isn't honorable, holding to both the letter and the spirit of the law—he knows she'll never touch him unless he asks her to.

He's tempted to ask her now, as her fingers are less than a few inches away from his hips, and he's breathing hard when she glances up at him and says, "You're very welcome."

She tilts her head back and closes her eyes, waiting for a kiss that never comes, because he's already shoving the jug against her body and muttering apologies as he strides away.

* * *

That night, when she walks him to his room, she isn't smiling when she asks to join him in his bed, her dark eyes simultaneously more serious and more terrifying than they've ever been before.

"I can't," he tells her.

"Why not?" she asks, and he would think her voice sounded plaintive if he didn't know she never let herself feel such things.

"I don't belong here," he says. "Everything I love is in the world above."

He sees the exact moment when her eyes shutter away any expression.

"I see," she says distantly. "There's nothing to keep you here, then."

"Nothing at all," he affirms.

She nods once before departing, appearing utterly unmoved, and he strives to be the same.

He ignores the way those three words linger on his lips like a lie.

* * *

Winter is the season of the dead, and there is much to keep the both of them busy, or so he tells himself when it feels like a gulf opens up between them, their fragile closeness fading as if it had never been.

At dinner, they never talk now, and he can see Combeferre, Grantaire, and Gavroche shooting the two of them looks, initially curious but turning increasingly worried as the silence between them lengthens.

She still accompanies him to his room, but now she merely tilts her head in question, the wordless offer almost perfunctory, containing none of the heat and passion present before.

_It's for the best_, he tells himself every night as he lies awake and alone in his bed, wishing he was a better liar.

* * *

It is the first day of the last month of the year when Éponine addresses her subjects and announces the beginning of the festivals and celebrations that mark the Underworld's time of rejoicing, of glorying in the death of winter, the death of the year, Death herself.

It also marks the start of her annual week of seclusion, the time she takes for herself to _be_ herself—simply Éponine, not Ereshkigal, not the goddess of death, not the queen of Erkalla, not She Who Rules Alone.

She's almost forgotten what that feels like.

She doesn't meet Enjolras's eyes when she sweeps to her chambers.

_It's for the best_, she tells herself.

* * *

"So," Combeferre says, sighing, "you really will leave Erkalla. Congratulations."

Enjolras looks at him sharply. "There's still a month left," he points out.

"And none who've undergone the test ever lasted more than three," Combeferre says. "And the record-holder is Gilgamesh, so you can imagine how quickly the others gave in. It's safe to say you'll be home once they year is finished."

_But this is home now_, Enjolras longs to say, and finds his mind has finally accepted what his heart knew long ago, the minute he looked into Ereshkigal's eyes and recognized the woman from his dreams.

"Oh," he says aloud, his hand stilling over the board.

"What?" Combeferre asks.

"Nothing," Enjolras says, but his heart is pounding in his ears. "Just—I need fresh air. Please excuse me."

He strides quickly from the room, pace barely slower than a sprint, as if demons were on his heel, and soon he is out of the palace and deep in the wild forest behind it, darkness and the deep, steady thrum of Ereshkigal's power surrounding him.

_I do not wish to leave_, he admits to himself, his footsteps slowing. _I want to stay here._

_I want to stay here because of her._

He stops in the middle of the woods, breathing as hard as if he'd run a race, and looks wildly around for something, _anything_, to eat or drink, anything that would keep him here.

He hears the thundering of a nearby waterfall, and walks toward it. Plain water will do. She'd offered him plain water, two months ago, and he'd refused it.

He wouldn't refuse it if she offered it again.

_If _she offered it again.

His footsteps slow as his thoughts race.

_What are you __**thinking**__?_ the last sane corner of his mind shouts. _Of course she won't offer it, you fool. She doesn't want you—she's never wanted you—she's never cared for you at all. Why would she care for some untried slip of a boy? She's Ereshkigal, Death herself, Queen of Erkalla, She Who Rules Alone._

_You have nothing to give her but a moment's amusement. You're simply a game she plays to pass the time—and if you lose, what makes you think she'd show mercy to you? What makes you think she'll give you freedom instead of punishing you? What have you done to earn her favor instead of her wrath?_

_Don't give in. Your pride is the only thing you have left_, it whispers.

He stops at the foot of a small lake, the receptacle for an impressive, massive waterfall, and he's so lost in thoughts that it takes him a moment to register that he's not alone.

"What are you doing here?" Ereshkigal asks him, standing across the lake in hip-deep water, her wet, dark hair clinging to her shoulders and doing nothing to hide her bare breasts.

As he stares at her, Enjolras desperately clings to the last of his shattering resolve, struck with the sudden certainty that there is no escape for him now.

* * *

Éponine sees him standing there and is moved to fury, fierce and wild and ultimately despairing.

_Why?_ she wants to scream at him. _Why have you come here? Are so eager to make your disdain for me known? Do you wish to say how undesirable I am to my face? Must you follow me in truth as well as haunting my thoughts? Shall I have no escape from you and your damnable, pitying eyes? I am tired of being rejected by you!_

She bites her tongue before the words escape her lips, however. She is Éponine, called Ereshkigal, named Queen of the Land of the Dead, and she begs answers of no one.

Instead, she sets her shoulders back, stands straight, and proudly lifts her chin to meet his blue-eyed gaze, stubbornly refusing to cross her arms over her bare breasts. "What are you doing here?" she demands—if he will not take what she has to give him, then she will take from him instead.

He takes a moment to answer. "…I was going for a walk. I heard the waterfall and came here—if I knew you were here I would have—" He cuts himself off and falls silent.

She keeps her expression impassive, though her mouth wants to twist in anger. "Finish your sentence," she orders.

_Say how you would have turned your back on me and walked away_, she thinks viciously. _You've never had a problem using your words as weapons before._

_But that was __**before**_, another corner of her mind thinks. _Before he got to know you—before he became your friend._

_And then what did he do? He turned me down!_ she answers angrily.

_He got to know you,_ the lonely corner repeats sadly. _Of course he turned you down. Who would love you once they got to know you? Not father—not Azelma—why should you be angry at him for realizing what everybody else does? That you don't deserve love._

She grits her teeth and resolutely banishes that other voice in favor of watching Enjolras.

He straightens and keeps his eyes trained on her face. "If I knew you were here, I would never have come here."

_I knew it._ This time she can't help but smile—cold, cruel, and satisfied. "Afraid of disturbing me?" she asks.

"It's the other way around," he replies.

She stops smiling. The sharp pang of hurt that goes through her is startling, though she angrily wishes it weren't. What else did she expect from him? It's nothing she doesn't already know.

_You don't deserve love, Éponine._

But she has a tendency of courting pain and a habit of never giving up entirely, so she offers herself to him one last time anyway.

One last time.

_He will be gone in a few weeks_, she thinks. _He has spent most of a year in my realm and not yielded to temptation—he has not eaten of my table, nor drunk from my cup, nor slept in my bed. But neither has he been unkind to my subjects, neither has he treated my family with anything but respect, neither has he been anything but honest with me._

_It's only fair that I be honest with him._

"Do you wish to join me?" she asks suddenly.

He jerks, startled. "What?"

She firms her lips and looks him straight in the eye. "Do you wish to join me?" she says again, pointedly running a hand up and down her body.

He closes his eyes, his face a sudden mask of agony, and her heart clenches.

(Does the thought of being with her cause him so much pain?)

She fully expects him to say no, just like always, and waits for the sharp pang of anguish.

It was always going to end this way.

* * *

Enjolras closes his eyes and shudders.

It was always going to end this way, he knows that now, and he's too far gone to care that surely he's signing away his freedom, surely he's giving up any last hold he has on sanity.

He shrugs off his robe and dives into the water, swimming to her side of the lake with long, even strokes. He emerges, dripping wet, and she barely has time to open her mouth before he's pressing his lips to hers, desperate, crazed, frantic with lust, his body pushing hers back until she is pressed up against the smooth, stone walls surrounding the lake.

She makes a small, shocked sound when he presses his hips to hers, the evidence of his desire hard against her thighs, and he pulls his mouth away.

"Are you sure you want this?" he asks, voice shaky with need. Maybe she'd merely been inviting him to bathe with her, in which case he's made a total fool of himself—a common enough occurrence around her. "Are you sure you want me?"

She pulls his head down and thrusts her tongue into his mouth.

He can live with that answer.

He kisses her back with everything he has, and slips eager fingers down her body, tracing the lines of her legs before coaxing them open to caress the delicate folds of her skin. She moans against his mouth and bucks her hips into his hand, and he honestly doesn't know how he's stayed away so long, resisted temptation, held himself apart from her when it seems like his body's been made for this, made for her.

He fumbles a bit before finding the little nub of flesh at the apex of her thighs, and strokes it hard with his thumb.

Her whole body arches against him in response, and he hisses as she digs her nails into his shoulders.

The sensation isn't entirely painful, and he rubs his erection against her, trying to relieve the pressure building within him.

"Please," he's begging her. "Please."

He's not entirely sure what for, but she seems to know. She spreads her legs wider and takes him into her hand, and soon she's guiding him inside her and—

_Sweet chaos_.

He moans as her hot, tight sheathe engulfs him. He's never, ever felt anything this good. His head drops to her shoulder and stays there as shudders wrack his body, and his hips thrust wildly against hers, instinctively setting a fast, brutal pace that drives them both closer and closer and—

* * *

Éponine gasps as he moves fervently within her, the hollow ache between her legs suddenly, decadently, _marvelously_ filled.

She clings to his shoulders and wraps her legs tight around his waist as he brings her closer and closer to completion, still half-disbelieving that this is actually happening.

This is_ not_ how she imagined their first coupling (and in the months since his arrival, she's imagined it quite a lot).

She imagined it taking place in her chambers, or more likely his. She would seduce him, undress him slowly, kiss and lick and suck until he was a trembling wreck underneath her. She would bring him to the edge of ecstasy and hold him there until he begged her for his release, his iron self-control torn into frayed, tattered shreds. She would conquer him the way death conquered everyone—completely, utterly, absolutely.

Instead, they conquer each other, bodies a war zone, love-making a battlefield with no prisoners taken, no quarter given. It's uncontrolled and wild and there is absolutely no finesse to it, just wanting blazing bright as they trail hands and lips and teeth over each other, and she's never, ever felt like this.

She's too lost in her own pleasure to notice he's saying something until his head drops to her shoulder and his lips murmur his words directly into her ear.

"Please," he says, over and over in a low, ragged voice.

Please—as if he's as desperate for her as she's been for him. As if the months of refusal never existed.

Please—naked, ardent pleading from a man who never begs.

Please.

She gives him what he wants.

She drops over the edge of ecstasy and takes him with her, shuddering as light explodes behind her eyelids, his hoarse cry of release ringing in her ears:

_Please._

* * *

**Endnote: We hope you liked it! Please review and tell us what you think. :)**


	8. He Who Yields

**Author Note: Welcome to the eighth chapter of ****_In the Land Between Rivers, I Have Loved You_****! Thank you for reading.**

**WARNING - this chapter is very NSFW. You have been warned (or helpfully informed - take your pick). :D**

**Disclaimer: I am not Victor Hugo. I do not own the book, the musical, or the film, and I certainly do not own the characters.**

* * *

**Chapter Eight: He Who Yields**

* * *

For a few blissful minutes, Enjolras's mind is completely blank and his body is sated, and everything is right with his world.

Then the ramifications of what he's done hits him full-force, and he could curse himself to the deepest pits of Erkalla for his stupidity, but he might as well save himself the trouble because surely that's where he's headed now.

He's lost and she's won, his freedom traded for a few moments of ecstasy, and he rests his head against the crook of her neck for just a second longer and tries to fight his rising despair.

(Still, there's a traitorous thought running through his mind that it had been worth it.)

Eventually, he pulls back to look her in the face—he has many flaws, but cowardice is not one of them.

He expects to see triumph in her eyes, pride in a job well-done, laughter at another young godling put in his place, another stupid boy falling for her charms.

He knows she doesn't love him. He fell for her anyway, and he'll face her dismissal with every ounce of dignity he can muster.

Instead, what he finds when he meets her gaze takes his breath away.

She is looking up at him with unconcealed, child-like wonder, eyes bright and joyous. It's not a queen he holds in his arms, not a cold and forbidding goddess, but simply an impossibly young girl, lips parted slightly in amazed surprise.

Before he's aware of what he's doing, he's already leaning forward and pressing a kiss to those lips, soft and chaste and tender.

She lifts a hand to cup his face when he draws back. "You wanted me," she breathes.

He can't help it. He laughs, his body shaking against hers, half in hilarity and half in hysteria.

She scowls and smacks his shoulder. "It's not funny!"

"Oh, but it is," he murmurs against her temple. "Of course I want you—I've done nothing _but _want you since the moment we met."

She glances at him doubtfully from underneath sooty eyelashes. "Liar."

He raises a brow at her and moves his hips; he's still half-hard inside her, and the sight of her eyes widening in shock is enough to set his flesh stirring again. "Are you certain about that, my lady?" he says, his voice lower and rougher than he expects, but she seems to like it, if the way her thighs tighten around his hips is any indication.

He continues. "Are you a mind reader, then, that you know my thoughts and hear my dreams? I think not, because if you were then you would have known that I have dreamt of doing _this_—" he thrusts hard against her, relishing the way she gasps "—every night since the first night you invited me to your bed."

She tilts her head back and pants, and he nips at the smooth column of her throat. "You would have known how I have longed to learn the taste of every inch of your skin." His hand reaches up to caress her breast, fingertips playing with her peaked nipple, and she arches her back in response. "You would have known how I have yearned to kneel between your thighs and show you how I pay homage to such beauty. You would have known how every glance from your perfect eyes feels as if it's setting me on fire. You would have known—"

"Shut up," she says. "Shut up and fuck me."

"Gladly," he answers, and proceeds to do so, but differently than before. He takes her slowly this time, heard and steady until she is screaming obscenities at him to move faster, more, she needs more, what is he _doing_, move faster, damn you, now, now, now, so close, please, so close, please, so _close_—

She falls apart and he watches her with eyes wide open, taking every second of it in.

Afterwards, she leans against him, legs too shaky to support her, arms wrapped tight around his waist, and he murmurs quietly in her ear, "I have wanted you ever since I understood what wanting was."

This time, it is she who reaches up to press a kiss to his waiting lips.

* * *

She takes him to her bed.

When they reach the threshold of her chambers, she sees the barest hint of hesitation before he steps over the boundary, but still he does so, and when she turns around to meet him, he is already right before her, lifting his hands to her face to kiss the question from her mouth.

"Want you," he says simply.

_You have me,_ she would tell him if she had breath to speak, if he hadn't already stolen it from her lungs and replaced it with his own.

"Ereshkigal," he groans against her lips.

"Éponine," she corrects him without thinking.

His eyes fly open and it takes all she has not to look away or blush.

She can count the number of people who know her chosen name on two hands and have fingers left over.

She does not trust easily. She loves even less so.

But with him, it's effortless.

"Éponine," he murmurs, smiling. He pulls her closer, nuzzling the side of her neck. "It's beautiful. It suits you."

She shivers when he sucks gently on the sensitive skin there. "Flattery won't work on me," she replies.

"It's the truth," he says. He pulls back to look her in the eye, a crooked little grin on his face, the same one he wears right before taking one of her pieces in the Royal Game. She hasn't seen it in weeks.

She's missed it. She's missed _him_.

"Come with me," she demands, taking his hands and leading him through the maze of rooms until they reach her bedchambers. Once there, she steps back slowly, sensuously, glorying in the feel of his intense gaze on her. She shrugs off her robes, letting the fine cloth fall to the floor in a careless heap, then keeps walking back, her eyes on his, until her legs hit the bed.

She climbs on, light brown skin and dark as midnight hair contrasting well with the pristine white sheets. She knows she looks like a work of art as she lies back, waiting for him to join her, and she's never felt more desirable than she does right now, as his eyes linger on her full breasts, her long legs, the black patch of hair that covers her sex.

"Now you," she whispers.

He undresses for her, a little shyly at first—she remembers the stories Grantaire told her of how little he seemed to take notice of the other young gods and goddesses his age, and she knows he must not have had that many lovers—but soon he grows bolder under her warm regard. He comes to stand beside her, completely nude, and she stretches out a hand and runs it down his beautiful body.

"You _are_ a marble man, I suppose," she says softly.

He shakes his head. "No. Just a man, made of flesh and blood—though my flesh is immortal and my blood is divine," he says, grinning.

"Then we are well-matched," she replies teasingly. She tugs on his hand. "Lie with me."

"Gladly," he murmurs, climbing into bed beside her, warm flesh meeting warm flesh.

"Oh, little one," she sighs as he settles between her thighs, stretching his hard, lean body over hers.

His eyes darken and his breathing quickens, and his mouth swoops down on hers and kisses her fiercely.

"Why do you call me that? Little one?" He speaks the words against her lips, voice almost a rasp.

"Because when I first saw you in my hall, I wanted to protect you. I wanted to take you under my wing and keep you safe. You looked so young," she murmurs honestly, running a hand through his still-damp hair. "A god, yes, but a little one." She looks at him questioningly. "Would you like me to stop?"

He shakes his head. "No."

She smiles, lips curving, slow and deliberate. "Then come here, little one."

They make love softly this time, as soft as the kisses he drops all over her body, butterfly brushes of his lips against her collarbones, her shoulders, her breasts. His mouth lingers over the thundering beat of her heart as they move together.

"Éponine," he says, again and again and again, the syllables of her name spoken in time to his deep, steady thrusts. "Éponine."

She shudders at the sound of it—it's as if he wants her to know it is only her he thinks of when he's making love to her, as if there's no room in his mind for anything else.

He comes with a quiet groan, spilling his seed inside her as her body tightens around his, their limbs a sweaty, tangled mess.

A few minutes later, he begins to push off of her, raising himself up on slightly shaky arms. "I should go…"

"No," she commands, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and pulling him back down against her. "Stay."

And stay he does, the two of them falling asleep together, the marble man and the untouchable queen lying side by side.

* * *

He wakes in her bed, surrounded by her scent and the exquisite feel of her smooth, bare skin pressed to his back. She has thrown a languid arm around his waist and an indolent leg over his thighs, keeping him imprisoned—not that he minds. No, he doesn't mind at all.

It does make it a little awkward to try and turn over, though. Whenever he attempts to extricate himself from her embrace, she merely clings tighter, but he eventually manages to position himself so that he faces her, taking in the sight of her lit by the pale morning light.

The sharp lines of her features are softened by sleep and a faint smile lingers on her lips, and his breath catches in his throat as he lies beside her in silent awe.

She's beautiful. She's always beautiful, and now that she's made him hers, he no longer has the will to deny the near-painful clenching of his heart every time he sees her, every time he is struck anew by her incomparable loveliness.

He leans forward to press a kiss to those perfect lips, then pauses. She's asleep; he should let her rest since last night had been…physically taxing, to say the least.

He brushes his lips over her temple and pulls back to watch her slumber, resolving to content himself with just the sight of her.

"Is that all?" she murmurs, eyes still shut though her mouth curves into a smile.

He starts a little in surprise. "My apologies—I did not mean to wake you—"

"No?" She opens those dark eyes to stare directly into his. "What a pity, as I had every intention of waking you."

She pulls back to run her eyes appreciatively over his whole body and he fights the urge to pull the sheets up to cover himself. They are lovers now—she's done much more than simply _looking_ at him. Still, this is the first time he's been in a situation like this. He shifts slightly, unsure of what to do.

She solves the problem by tugging on his hair to pull him to her. She kisses him, soft and tender, eyes half-open to gauge his reaction.

He responds eagerly, his whole body craning towards her, and she meets him halfway, using the leg she's thrown over his hips to guide him closer, so that her wet warmth is a heated brand against his stomach, the proof of her desire setting flame to his own.

"I'd have kissed you just like this, until you left your dreams behind you. Until you woke to me," she whispers, and he shudders at the sound. Lazily, she coaxes his mouth open, her tongue tracing his lips before darting inside to draw patterns on the sensitive roof of his mouth, deepening the kiss.

He moans when she pulls away and she chuckles. "And if that hadn't worked, I'd have done this—" She trails her fingers down his torso and takes his length into her hand, squeezing him firmly so that he bucks helplessly against her.

"Éponine," he gasps, and she smiles, moving her hand up and down.

"Shall I wake you like this tomorrow?" she asks. "Or would you prefer I use my mouth instead?"

He moans again, tilting his head back, and she takes the opportunity to nip at his neck.

"Hmm? So which do you want?" she prompts, amused. "I couldn't quite make out what you said."

"I—I—I don't know," he says a touch desperately, eyes screwed tight in pleasure. "I've never—no one's ever—"

She stops the motions of her hand, and he opens his eyes to find her staring at him quizzically. "None of your other lovers have used their mouth on you?"

He shakes his head. "You are my only lover," he admits.

Her eyes widen in surprise. "Really?" she says incredulously.

He flushes and nods once before hiding his face in the crook of her neck. He's never been ashamed of his lack of experience, but then again he's never lain with the woman of his dreams before, a woman who obviously knows what she likes and how she likes it and expects her lover to know the same.

She brushes her hand through his hair. "Little one," she says, her voice full of tenderness, "don't hide from me. I didn't mean it like that. I was only surprised—you seemed so sure of yourself last night. I assumed you had at least a little experience, some tutoring in the art of love-making."

He bites his lip before he can tell her that _she_ had tutored him in dreams for centuries before they met. It would be difficult to explain that without sounding mad. Instead, he says stiffly, "I know the basics. My brother and my friends talked of their exploits. I'm not a complete innocent."

She throws her head back and laughs, her whole body shaking as her mouth opens wide with mirth. She looks at him with fond, wickedly amused eyes. "After last night, you're not an innocent at all."

He grins wryly. "I suppose not."

She continues running her fingers through his golden curls, her dark eyes curious. "Why have you never lain with anyone?" she eventually asks, blunt as always.

He shrugs, trying for nonchalance. "There was never anyone I wished to share my bed with."

_Until you,_ goes unsaid, but they both hear it anyway.

Her gaze warms, and she pushes him onto his back and straddles him, her thighs on either side of his waist and one hand holding his wrists above his head while she lays the other gently against his cheek. She leans down to kiss him once, twice, thrice, until they are both breathless.

"I am honored that you chose me to be your first lover, Enjolras," she whispers. "I have never been anyone's first before."

_Would you like to be my last? Would you like to be my only?_ he wants to say.

But she is Ereshkigal, Queen of Erkalla, the Goddess of Death, She Who Rules Alone, and he knows better than to ask for what she will not give him, so instead he kisses her back, trying to lose himself in her, trying to ignore the fact that soon she will tire of him, soon she will forget him.

She makes it easy, kissing and caressing him until he's a desperate wreck beneath her, not a thought in his head but her.

"Oh, little one, I have so much I want to do to you," she says after a few torturous, delirious minutes of gratification.

"Like what?" he asks, voice rough with desire, lids too heavy with pleasure to open.

She laughs, the sound low and sinful, and places open-mouthed kisses down his body, until her hair is brushing against his thighs and her lips are pressed to the jut of his hipbones. "Like this," she says, right before she takes him into her mouth.

His whole body arches upward and his fists tangle in the sheets as she scrapes her teeth over his length, as she runs her tongue around the tip, as she sucks hard on his cock.

He's moaning, gasping out her name, practically sobbing as she undoes him, any self-control he once possessed shattered beyond all recognition. Soon, he spills his seed into her warm, wet mouth, shuddering from the aftershocks of his release as she casually wipes her now-swollen lips with the back of her hand.

"My pretty, pretty boy," she murmurs, looking over him possessively. "How lovely you are in my bed."

She crawls over his spent form, stretching her body above his to press kisses to his sweat-soaked brow, his trembling eyelids, his full, girlish lips.

(He can taste himself on her. The realization has him shuddering more.)

She smiles down at him, eyes gleaming with satisfaction and mischief. "What would you like me to do next, little one?"

"I…" He trails off, uncertain.

"Mm?"

He takes a deep breath. "Last night, I told you I wanted to kiss every inch of your skin."

Her grin widens. "Indeed. You made a fair effort."

He blushes, but nevertheless he brings a hand to her hip, fingers tracing the crease between her thigh and her sex. "May I kiss you here?" he asks.

She licks her lips, her dark eyes turning even darker as she gazes at him. "Yes."

He props himself up on his elbows, ready to switch their positions, when his stomach gives a loud rumble.

She bursts out laughing as he buries his reddened face in the pillows.

"I'm sorry—" he begins to say, but she's already waving him off, climbing gracefully out of bed to pull on a robe, and sauntering nonchalantly through the doorway.

"Stay there and wait for me," she commands, throwing a cocky, amused smirk at him over her shoulder.

And seeing no other option, he does.

* * *

She walks out of her bedchamber with a spring in her step and a smile on her face.

She hasn't been this happy in decades, she realizes as she rings the bell for her servants.

"A full breakfast for two," she commands. "Plenty of fresh fruit and meat. Fresh milk as well, and pomegranate juice, and a small jar of honey with fresh-baked bread."

Her faithful, silent servants bow before leaving to do their duty, reappearing in mere seconds with everything she'd requested.

"Thank you," she says, levitating the trays with a wave of her hand. She turns to leave, then halts, glancing over her shoulder. "Please make sure I am not disturbed today."

She doubts anyone would be looking for her, since it is the first week of the last month of the year—her subjects are well-aware that this is the time she sets aside to rest in solitude, the days she selfishly takes for herself to do whatever she wants, responsibilities and protocols and duties be damned.

Still, she'd rather not have anyone walk in on her and Enjolras if someone _does_come looking for her.

Her maids nod and give a final bow before leaving, and she strides back to her waiting lover, reassured that she will have him to herself today.

He is sitting up, the sheets pooled around his hips, and she takes a minute to admire him.

He is hers now, hers after months of longing and rejection and uncertainty, both of them kept apart by their stubborn pride and unyielding natures.

They'd yielded to each other the night before, and again this morning, and at the moment her plans for this week revolved around keeping him in her bed and sating her body's lust for his.

But first, she has to tend to him.

She discards her robe and slides into bed beside him. The sheets smell of sex and sweat and his heady, masculine scent, deliciously mixed with traces of her own perfume. She feels the whimsical urge to bottle the fragrance and pictures dabbing it behind her ears and between her breasts in the morning, so that everyone would know who she had lain with and what they had been doing together.

From the way Enjolras presses his face to her neck and inhales deeply, she thinks he imagines the same.

"I've brought us breakfast," she says, her voice as casual as she can make it while she brings the trays piled high with food over to the bed.

He eyes the food longingly and swallows hard, and once again her heart clenches at how hungry he looks, at how thin he is. Gods cannot die from starvation, but they can still feel hunger, they can still know thirst, and he has lived in her realm a full eleven months without once letting a crumb of food or a drop of water pass his lips.

Things will be different now.

Or so she hopes.

She takes an orange, ripe and full, and peels it quickly, tearing the juicy flesh apart with her hands. She offers him a portion, silently watching his face.

The look in his clear, blue eyes is unreadable, but after several long moments, he dips his head and eats the fruit from her hand, lips closing over her skin, tongue darting out to lap at the juice that stains her fingers.

She smiles at him, relieved that he is finally eating, finally accepting her hospitality.

"It would be stupid not to eat," he says, answering her unspoken question. "I've already lain with you. It's not as if there's any hope of me leaving…" He trails off and looks away.

Her heart sinks. "Do you wish to leave?"

He turns his gaze back to her, looking directly into her eyes. "No."

She realizes she was holding her breath only when she releases it on a shaky exhale.

He tactfully doesn't mention her moment of vulnerability and instead digs in. She watches him, noting how he takes care not to stuff his face like an uncivilized brute, but also how he eagerly devours his half of the meal. Éponine resolves to have the cooks prepare his favorite foods every day from now on, until the hollows in his cheeks fill out again.

Amusingly enough, Éponine is so preoccupied with observing him that she accidentally drips honey onto her arm instead of her bread.

She curses under her breath and reaches for a cloth napkin, but a hand grips her wrist and brings her honey-sprinkled arm to her lover's mouth instead. He licks the golden droplets from her skin, his blue eyes gleaming with playfulness and carefully banked desire.

She pries her arm loose from his grip. "Eat some more," she says with a touch of regret, resolutely ignoring the way her body is responding to his advances. "You're still hungry."

His eyes brighten even more. "Yes," he agrees, voice deceptively mild. "I am."

The next thing she knows, he is pressing her back into the bed, mouth plundering hers as his hands come up to fondle her breasts, fingertips squeezing her nipples until they peak. Wetness pools between her thighs, and she instinctively opens them to accommodate his hips as he settles against her, his hardness meeting her heat.

"You know, it's because you act like this that I didn't think you were a virgin," she says wryly as soon as he leaves her mouth free to pepper love-bites on her neck.

"Like what?" he murmurs, apparently genuinely inquisitive.

"Like you know what you're doing," she replies.

He lifts his head to look at her. "Well, I know that I want you," he says simply.

She reaches up to card her fingers through his hair and kisses him. "You can have me. Later. After you're done eating," she insists.

He grins, boyish and eager. "I can do both."

Before she can ask him what he means, he takes the jar of honey and drizzles the golden liquid onto her collarbones. His hand comes up and smears it across her skin, and he leans over her and begins laving it off her with his tongue, lips leaving a warm trail from one shoulder to the other, lingering slightly in the hollow of her throat where some of the honey has pooled.

She arches her back and moans slightly. "This isn't—exactly—what I had in mind," she says, tugging on his hair and pulling his mouth off her skin.

"But you taste so good," he says, still grinning, looking so much younger and carefree than she's ever seen him.

Her heart softens. "Very well," she grumbles, pulling her expression into a mock-angry scowl. "If you insist on using me as a platter, go ahead."

She stretches herself flat on her back, arms pillowing her head, every inch of her dusky, smooth skin laid bare before him.

Enjolras stares at her reverently for several long moments, hunger apparently forgotten in favor of lust, so she takes an apple slice and places it on her flat stomach, then drops a handful of grapes onto her chest, then reaches for a pear and bites into it, holding it in her mouth as if she were a boar being served for dinner.

He laughs again and eagerly leans over her, mouth plucking the fruit from her body, palms flat on the bed as he holds himself up, the muscles in his arms standing in taut relief beneath his skin.

He eats the rest of his breakfast like that, pouring juice over her belly and lapping it up with his tongue, swallowing a trail of raisins from her navel to the hollow of her throat, kissing the pomegranate seeds from her mouth (though he certainly takes his time about it, being far more interested in rubbing his tongue against hers than stealing the tart fruit). He turns her over onto her stomach and makes her shriek when he sprinkles what's left of the milk onto her back, sucking the droplets from her skin as he straddles her.

(She can feel the curve of his smile against her shoulder and she thinks it's her favorite sensation.)

They make even more of a mess of her bed than before, staining the sheets with preserves and milk and crushed bits of fruit, but neither of them care, too busy pressing their sticky, fevered bodies close together, mouths hungrily ravishing each other, hands trailing wantonly over heated skin.

Éponine lies still beneath him as he drizzles the last of the honey over her breasts, her bellybutton, and the soft, sensitive skin of her thighs, watching the way he watches her with serious, intense eyes.

Soon, it is her turn to moan and tremble and gasp as he follows the golden trail with his tongue, up and down and up again. He suckles gently at her breasts, lips tugging lightly on her nipples as he switches from one to the other, careful not to use his teeth even as she's ordering him to.

"You fucking tease," she swears as she arches against him, unable to hit him as his hands hold her arms down at the side.

He chuckles and begins to brush his lips over the sensitive peaks, not even sucking anymore, just torturing her with feather-light touches. "Mmhm," he says. "I learned it from you." He places a close-mouthed kiss against the underside of one breast; the action would be nearly chaste if she couldn't feel his erection pressed against her belly, hot and hard and a clear indication of just how much he wants her.

"Damn you," she snarls. "I don't _want _slow and gentle."

He kisses her, hissing slightly when she nips at his lips hard enough to draw blood. "What a shame, then, since I want to take my time," he says stubbornly.

Éponine would have cursed again if he hadn't started making his way down her body, pausing when he gets to her sex before dipping his head and licking the crease between her legs and hips. He presses kisses to the smooth, dusky skin of her thighs, and makes a sound of surprise when she spreads them for him, opening herself up to him impatiently.

"Huh," he says, reaching out with a curious hand and tracing her lower lips, swallowing hard when his fingertips come away coated with her slick wetness. He rubs them together before looking back down at her, examining her carefully.

"You're so pretty," he says, a sort of innocent wonder in his voice at odds with the way they're tangled nude together.

Despite herself, she blushes. Thankfully, he doesn't notice, too busy looking at her center. He caresses her slowly, learning every inch of her sex: the patch of dark, curly hair that crowns her, the soft folds and crevices that surrounds the entrance to her body, the sensitive bundle of nerves that has her shuddering when he circles it with his thumb.

She cries out when he bends his head and takes it into his mouth, lips moving uncertainly if eagerly against her.

"I—you—your tongue, there, yes, use the tip, right there, please, oh, please," she moans, pressing his head closer to her, shamelessly spreading her legs wider, accidentally knocking the trays of empty plates onto the floor. She hears a few shatter, but she cannot bring herself to care whilst _he _is shattering _her_. "Oh, sweet chaos, are you sure you haven't done this before?"

He laughs, the sound vibrating against her, and she _keens_, low and desperate at the feel of it.

"Enjolras, please," she gasps out when he adds his fingers, pumping them in and out of her as his mouth ravages her clit.

"Like this?" he murmurs. "Do you like it like this?"

Her answer is his name, shouted out as she orgasms helplessly against his mouth, every muscle going hot and weak as sensation wracks her body.

Afterwards, while she's catching her breath, he stretches himself out beside her, expression ridiculously pleased. "If I wake first tomorrow, may _I _use my mouth to rouse _you_?" he asks.

She laughs as she kisses him, then moans as she tastes her salty essence mingled with sweet honey on his tongue. She plants her hand next to his hip as she leans deeper into the kiss, then grimaces when it comes away sticky.

"Oh, damn it, we've gotten honey all over the sheets," she complains.

"You didn't mind a few minutes ago," he points out.

"Well, you were eating me out a few minutes ago. I wouldn't have minded if you'd set fire to my chambers, so long as you didn't stop." She sighs and gets out of bed. "Come, we should let the servants clean up."

She throws her robe back on, then rummages through her clothing chests for—ah, there it is.

Éponine unfurls a deep red robe and holds it out for him to wear, waiting expectantly for him to step into it.

He gives it a suspicious look. "Whose is that?"

She frowns and tilts her head. "It's yours—I had it made for you months ago in case…"

_In case this ever happened._

She bites her lip; how pathetic she must seem to him right now, having pined after him for months, keeping clothes for him in her own chambers on the off chance he might share her bed.

Instead, he smiles softly as walks over to her and places his arms inside the sleeves, glancing at her over his shoulder as he shrugs the robe on. "That confident in your charms, my lady? But I suppose you had good reason, since here I am."

She wraps her arms around his waist and presses her face to his back.

_I love you_, she thinks, finally giving name to the aching feeling inside her chest whenever he is near.

She doesn't say it aloud.

(They always leave her if she says it to them. Always.)

* * *

Enjolras follows her into her sitting room and watches as she rings the bell to summon her servants. He fidgets slightly as they appear: lovely, quiet young women who eye him curiously and shoot small, approving smiles at their mistress.

"Please clean the rooms and change the beddings. We made a bit of a mess, I'm afraid," Éponine tells them, one hand on her hip and a pleased grin on her face.

They nod and bow in unison before trooping into the bedroom on silent feet, each of them taking Éponine's hand and pressing a kiss to the back of it as they pass her.

Éponine looks inordinately gratified as they do so. "Thank you!" she calls after them.

Then she loops her arm around Enjolras's and pulls him down a hallway. Their destination is a wide, spacious room containing a marble bath already filled with heated, scented water, several flowers floating on its tranquil surface.

Éponine casually disrobes and walks down the steps until the water hits her just above her hips. She cups her hands and pours water over her head, drops of it trailing down her skin in sensuous, rippling patterns.

"Coming to join me?" she asks him archly.

He places his new, rich robe next to hers before wading into the pool behind her, taking the small cloth she offers him. She holds her hair up, obviously expecting him to wash her back, and he does so, dipping his hands into the water and grabbing a bar of creamy soap off a nearby shelf to lather her up.

He washes every inch of her skin, drawing firm circles on her body with the cloth, taking care to rinse off the sweat, the lingering remnants of juice and honey, the evidence of their coupling from her body.

When he gets to the apex of her thighs, he lingers, pressing carefully against her and watching her arch up and purr in satisfaction. He brings her to a slow, easy climax with his soapy fingers, her sweet sigh of contentment ringing in his ears.

Afterwards, she climbs out and has him towel her dry, then leads him over to a sturdy stone table.

"Lie down," she commands.

"Why?" he asks.

She rolls her eyes. "One day, I will teach you to obey me without questioning me."

His mouth stays solemn though his eyes glint with laughter. "You're unlikely to succeed, but I welcome your attempts."

Nevertheless, he stretches out on the cloth-covered surface and waits.

Soon, her intent is made clear as she rubs oil-slicked hands over him, kneading his muscles skillfully as he groans in sheer pleasure.

"I figured you'd be sore after last night," she says lightly. "As your liege lady, it is my duty to make sure you are fit for continued service after such fine work." She massages the aches away, fingers digging deep into his shoulders, his neck, his back.

When every inch of him feels relaxed and lethargic, she has him turn over onto his back so that she can straddle him, oiled fingers coaxing him to attention before she takes him inside her with a quiet moan. She lazily rides him to completion, smirking down at him with half-closed lids as her body wrings pleasure from his.

He can barely make it back to her bedchambers, more than half-asleep from the fresh food and the warm bath and the enjoyable massage and the satisfying sex—he falls onto the cool, clean sheets the minute they get back. He is nearly dead to the world by the time she gets in behind him, throwing a possessive arm over his waist and an imprisoning leg over his hips, duplicating their position from earlier, when he first woke.

(This will be the way he always shares her bed in slumber—her heartbeat pressed tightly to his back as she holds him close, as she keeps him safe.)

"You belong to me, little one," she whispers. "You are mine now."

_Yes_, he thinks as he falls asleep. _And you are mine._

* * *

**Endnote: We hope you liked it! Please review and tell us what you think. :)**


	9. She Who Teaches Pleasure

**Author Note: Welcome to the ninth chapter of ****_In the Land Between Rivers, I Have Loved You_****! Thank you for reading.**

**Also, this chapter is ****_very_**** NSFW and features BDSM. If this makes you uncomfortable, please do not read it. Thank you.**

**Disclaimer: I am not Victor Hugo. I do not own the book, the musical, or the film, and I certainly do not own the characters.**

* * *

**Chapter Nine: She Who Teaches Pleasure**

* * *

Éponine wakes on their second morning together in agonizing pleasure, leaving her dreams behind her with a startled gasp as she registers the feel of her lover's sweet, girlish mouth pressed hot between her legs.

Her wide-eyed gaze meets his when she raises her head, looking down her body to find him kneeling for her. His clear blue eyes watch her carefully as his tongue torments her, and the sheer intimacy of it soon pushes her over the edge, her orgasm hitting her fast and hard and altogether unexpectedly this early in the morning.

She flops back onto the bed, boneless and short of breath, shocked and desperately aroused.

For chaos's sake, it's barely even _dawn_.

"What was _that_?" she says eventually.

"You said I could use my mouth. To wake you, if I woke first. So I did," he replies, brows furrowing anxiously as he sits back on his heels.

"But you—you're so—I didn't think you _meant_ it," she answers, propping herself up on her elbows to stare at him, still incredulous.

He frowns. "Why wouldn't I mean it?"

His lips are still slick with his saliva and her wetness, and can he honestly have no idea of what he's doing to her at the moment?

She growls under her breath and pounces on him, pushing him back and holding him down, kissing him with all the pent-up lust of the last year.

He kisses her back just as ardently, arching up and blatantly offering himself to her, and after yesterday, she knew he wanted her, but this much? This desperately?

She breaks off their kiss and looks down at him, eyes narrowed in playful exasperation.

"Enjolras, you spent eleven months loudly declaring your lack of desire for me; forgive me if I am a little shocked at your sudden transformation into an insatiable and utterly shameless lover," she tells him. "You've only spent a day in my bed, after all."

He looks up at her, charming, lovely, breath-taking. "I told you that I wanted you—though you're right. It's only been a day. Talk to me after a month as your lover; maybe I'll be satisfied then." Then his eyes widen, as if he suddenly realizes what it is he said. "I mean—not that I expect more than—"

She shuts him up with a kiss, and settles herself over his hips until he's planted deep inside her, clenching her body around him deliberately and feeling him shudder against her. She rides him fast and hard until he comes, then rolls off him and pulls his head against her shoulder, running a hand over his sweat-dampened curls as he nuzzles her neck.

"Oh, little one," she says. "A month would hardly be enough for me. Won't you give me at least two?"

He ducks his head. "As long as you like," he whispers. "You can have me as long as you like."

"I will hold you to your word, then," she answers, kissing his forehead.

_Forever_, she thinks. _I will hold you to forever_.

* * *

They spend the whole week in bed: she, the skilled teacher; he, the willing student.

And how _willing_ he is. He reminds Éponine a little of a puppy, to be honest: raw and untrained and so very eager to please. She has him lie back and watch her as she touches herself, as she runs her hands over every inch of her skin. She shows him where she likes to be touched, how she likes to be touched, when to caress and what to pinch, every secret of her body that she's learned through her long years of life.

After she's made herself come a few times (and left him unattended, glaring when his hands drifted down to take care of himself), she lets him touch her, lets him trace his fingers over the paths hers had taken, lets him learn her body as intimately as she learns his own.

He's a quick student, and soon surety and deftness begins to grace his hands as they caress her, while confidence starts to replace innocence in his eyes as he moves inside her.

She's always preferred experienced lovers in the past, but there is something deeply pleasurable about being the one to teach him, about being the first one he's ever done any of this with, about knowing that she could potentially be his last, be his only. She could be the one person in the entire world who knows what he looks like, flushed with passion and desperate for a release that only she can give him.

And for all his lack of skill, he doesn't compare unfavorably to the others who've shared her bed—he is no carefully trained courtesan, no smooth expert in the art of love-making, true.

But, oh, how he _wants_ her.

Enjolras makes it clear with every touch, every kiss, every searing glance just how much he desires her, how much he longs for her. He is passion and intensity and fire, and he burns for her, burns with her.

She has never felt this utterly needed before, as if she is more essential than food or water or even air. As if she's his first thought upon waking and his last before sleeping. As if he will never _not _need her.

She loves it.

(She loves _him_.)

* * *

They fuck in every single one of the fifteen rooms that make up her wing of the palace—she takes him on tables, in chairs, against the walls, on the floor, everywhere and anywhere.

She shows him every position she knows, and they push their young, nubile bodies to the edge, his godling's litheness meshing well with her ageless grace. Her favorite is, of course, astride him, riding him mercilessly, her hands pinning him down. He hasn't chosen his yet, though he does seem to prefer being on top, possessing a taste for control similar to hers that serves him well in their battles of will and lust and desire.

Still, she thinks he likes it best when they're lying on their sides, her back against his front, his hands free to roam all over her body, his teeth free to nip at her neck and shoulders, one of her legs lifted up as he enters her from behind.

It's always slow and sweet and torturous, every inch of their bodies pressed close together, and by the time he's thrusting into her, he always has one of his hands threaded through one of hers, linked fingers held tight against her heart.

Sometimes she thinks it's becoming her favorite, too, this position where she can barely tell where she ends and he begins, so intimately are they intertwined.

* * *

"We should go get dressed," he says reluctantly on their eighth morning together.

Her week of rest is over and her duties call. She must be Ereshkigal, Queen of Erkalla, Goddess of Death, and She Who Rules Alone once more. It's always been a little difficult, taking up the mantle again, but this year is particularly hard, as all she wants to do is bar the doors and pretend she is nothing and no one more than Éponine, ridiculously contented woman, best player of the Royal Game in Erkalla, and lover of Enjolras.

"Should we?" she says, sprawled over his body. "I think I prefer you without any clothes."

He chuckles. "True, but I don't think the Lesser Councils will appreciate it if I showed up to the meeting today completely nude."

She frowns, sitting up. On the contrary, they'd probably appreciate it a little _too_much. Perhaps they should get dressed…

But first things first.

"What are you doing?" Enjolras asks as she takes him into her hand, hissing slightly as she squeezes.

She smiles at him, then kisses him sweetly, softly. "Lie with me one last time?" she pleads, eyes closed.

He stiffens suddenly against her, and she is on the verge of asking him what's wrong when he takes hold of her hips and shifts them so that she's astride him.

"Of course," he tells her, wrapping his arms around her. "Whatever you want."

Éponine sighs and kisses him again. Soon, she's taking him within her and riding him leisurely, hips moving in slow, sensuous circles as he thrusts to meet her.

Both of them are nearing the edge when a commotion starts just outside her bedchamber.

"My lords, please don't go in there!" one of her servants shouts.

"Nonsense, we're her trusted advisers," Grantaire replies.

"Yeah! We know she gets touchy about the end of her resting week, but this is an emergency!" Gavroche adds.

Combeferre then raises his voice to address her. "My Lady, we're sorry to disturb you but it appears Enjolras has gone miss—"

The three of them burst through her doorway and abruptly stop, taking in the sight of her astride Enjolras, naked but for the covering her long hair gives her.

"—ing," Combeferre finishes.

"Or not," Gavroche adds cheekily, starting to grin.

Enjolras flushes but defiantly meets her boys' gazes, which range from merely resigned to obviously amused.

"Where would I have gone?" he asks heatedly, acting as dignified as if they had interrupted them during a council meeting instead of a love-making session.

Grantaire casually crosses his arms. "When our Lady's in seclusion, it's the start of the month-long celebration. Everyone begins preparing for the feasts, security tends to be a little more lax, and even we take the opportunity to laze about, as evidenced by the fact that none of us even noticed we hadn't seen you for a whole week until this morning. So we figured you might have made a run for it and succeeded."

Enjolras frowns and props himself up on his elbows. "I would never do so dishonorable a thing," he declares. "That would have meant breaking my word and attempting to cheat at our bargain."

"Well, we figured you might have gotten trapped in one of the shadier, dangerous regions, too," Gavroche says, grinning. "Though apparently you've just been here the whole time—the shadiest, most dangerous region around." He glances sneakily at Éponine, who rolls her eyes.

"As you can see, he's perfectly fine. Please leave," she says pointedly.

Grantaire ignores her in favor of frowning at Enjolras. "You couldn't have held out until the end of the month?"

Gavroche snickers. "Too late, Grantaire. Hand over the money."

Grantaire grumbles but tosses a hefty purse of coins at the younger god.

Combeferre pointedly clears his throat. "If he's been here since the beginning of the week…"

They look at the lovers questioningly.

Éponine raises an incredulous brow as Enjolras covers his face and groans.

"We'll take that as a yes," Combeferre says, and calmly accepts the purses and mutters thrown his way, then ushers the other two out the door. "My Lady, please remember that you have petitions and judgments to hear this morning," he reminds her over his shoulder.

"So you'd better make it quick!" Gavroche quips.

Enjolras's blush deepens as Éponine laughs, and finally, finally the others leave.

"Well," she says, grinning down at him, "you heard the man. Better make this fast."

And then she holds him down and rides him fiercely, eyes ablaze and fingers digging deep into his shoulders in the same way his leave imprints on her hips, both of them marking each other, as they drive each other faster, faster, faster—

She comes with a shattered cry, and he follows quickly after with a quiet moan.

"Go," he says after a few moments, easing her off his hips. "You have a realm to run."

She kisses him one last time. "You're right, you're right," she murmurs against his lips. "Farewell, Enjolras. And thank you for this week." She pulls back so he can look her in the eye and know she tells the truth.

His eyes are oddly solemn when he nods in reply. "It was my pleasure. Farewell, Éponine. Have a good day."

She tosses him a smile over her shoulder as she heads towards her dressing chambers. "I will, little one. I will."

* * *

Enjolras shrugs on the robe she gave him with a heavy heart.

_One last time?_ she'd asked him, and he'd given it to her even as he'd longed to beg for more, for longer, for forever.

She didn't want forever with him, however.

He shouldn't have expected any different, really, but from the things she'd said earlier this week, he'd thought…

Well, he'd thought wrong. It isn't as if that's a new experience when it comes to Éponine, anyway. And he's already resigned himself to living in Erkalla permanently—it shouldn't be so terrible. He is useful here, as a mediator and a leader, as a judge and the unofficial head of the Lesser Council. He loves the people and the realm, and he loves their queen even if she doesn't love him back. He can be happy here; he can make his home here.

Still, he leads the council meeting with a more subdued air than usual, barely even reacting when all of them stop and stare at him, mouths agape, at a random point halfway through the session.

"What?" he asks.

"You're _drinking_," Ninkurra, the goddess of fallow fields, says, her eyes wide.

"Oh," he says, looking down at the cup in his hand. "Yes, I am. I have decided to stay in the Underworld permanently."

The Lesser Council immediately breaks into smiles and cheers, and the meeting devolves into an impromptu party as Gilgamesh calls for more food and wine, all the members agreeing with him on the need to celebrate the occasion.

"I don't know what all the fuss is about," Enjolras says, rolling his eyes as his friend refills his cup yet again. "Weren't half of you certain I'd be staying?"

"We were bluffing," Gilgamesh says cheerfully. "You're so stubborn, we were convinced you'd leave just to spite us and prove us wrong. I'm glad our Lady was able to persuade you otherwise, though."

Enjolras stiffens. "Excuse me?"

Gilgamesh smiles at him knowingly. "I doubt you succumbed to hunger or thirst—lust, however…" He taps a spot below his ear. "And our Lady likes to leave her mark where it can be seen. Congratulations on sharing her bed, friend. It's an honor few can boast of."

Enjolras flushes in embarrassment and fury. "It is none of your business who I am or am not sharing my bed with—and if she did lay with me, you can be sure I'd see it as more than something to boast of."

He gets up and nods tersely to Gilgamesh and the other gods in the room before excusing himself and striding angrily away.

* * *

The seething restlessness has not yet left him by the time the bells chime for supper, and he can barely sit through the meal, ill at ease with Grantaire's bawdy quips and Gavroche's teasing innuendoes. Even Combeferre is smiling at him indulgently.

Conspicuously missing is Éponine, who apparently has been held up greeting the large influx of the newly dead, those fallen to winter and its hardships.

Enjolras nods and feels torn between relief over not having to endure her presence while knowing he's no longer her lover, and an odd sort of unhappiness at not being able to see her.

She sweeps in just as the others begin leaving, and he lingers over his food—out of politeness, he tells himself. It's only civil after all, and he wants to show her that they can still be friends, that her rejection in no way changes his regard for her.

(Still, she smiles at him over dessert—honeyed bread, his favorite, though it seems the whole feast has been made up of his favorite foods—and his heart pounds in his chest, and he knows he stayed for that alone.)

After she finishes, he gives her a nod and silently leaves, making his way down the hall in the direction of his chambers.

But then—

"Where are you going?" she calls unexpectedly after him.

He stops, shocked, but doesn't turn around. He isn't sure he trusts himself not to beg. "To my rooms, obviously."

"Oh. Alright," she says, and suddenly she is beside him, looping her arm through his and resting her head against his shoulder. "I wasn't sure if you wanted to keep them, or simply move your things into the chambers adjoining mine. Those particular rooms can stay yours if you like, of course. They do suit you rather well, and a change of scenery might be nice. I've never slept in that wing before."

He halts in his tracks and turns to face her, lifting her chin with a hand to anxiously survey her face.

She looks up at him with puzzled eyes that are swiftly turning alarmed. "What's wrong, little one?"

"I…" He hesitates, unsure of whether or not he should squash the hope building in his heart. "You wish to sleep in my rooms?"

She rolls her eyes. "Well, it would be rather rude if you kicked me out of your chambers after we make love, so yes, Enjolras, I wish to sleep in your rooms." She places a hand on her hip and frowns at him. "If you would prefer to sleep in mine, we can head there now, but please pick one before I decide to throw propriety out the window and have you right here in this hallway," she finishes, grinning at him.

She gives a small squeak of surprise when he presses her against the wall and lifts her up so her legs wrap around his waist, but kisses him back enthusiastically enough when he drops his mouth hungrily to hers.

"Hmm, so hallway it is," she says, smiling, tangling her hand in his hair to hold him still as she nips at his neck.

Earth and air be praised, she still _wants_ him, and he wraps his arms around her waist and holds her tight.

"I thought you were done with me," he confesses, and her mouth drops open in surprise.

"What in the name of chaos and order gave you that idea?" she demands, frowning, deep brown eyes growing darker in anger. "Did one of the lesser gods say something—"

He shakes his head. "No—it was just—you asked me to lie with you one last time," he says in a rush.

She looks at him in consternation. "I meant one last time before _heading out to work_. Not one last time for all eternity." She leans forward and draws his bottom lip between her teeth, tugging lightly before letting him go. "Little one," she says, speaking the words almost directly into his mouth. "There will never _be_one last time. Just once more will never be enough. I will always want you. You will always be welcome in my bed."

She reaches down and tangles one of her hands in his, bringing their linked fingers up to press against his heart. "Enjolras…I-I do not trust easily. But I've trusted you with my body, and I have trusted you with my name, and not a single one of my other lovers can say the same. You are safe with me," she promises. "You can trust me."

He answers her with an open-mouthed, hungry kiss that leads to another and another and another, until they actually _do_ end up making love in the hallway, right against the wall, their linked hands held above their heads as they hold each other close.

* * *

Afterwards, Éponine smoothes down her disheveled hair with one hand, the other still clasped tightly in his, and leads him down the hallway to his rooms. She leans playfully against the door when they arrive.

"May I join you in your bed?" she asks, mouth curved in amusement even though her eyes are strangely serious.

Both of them pause to remember all the other times she's asked him—all the other times he's said no.

This time, the answer is yes, and that night, he silently swears to her that it always will be.

* * *

The days pass quickly and the nights pass slowly as deep winter settles over most of Erkalla—the Ever-Dawning Fields are left untouched, of course, as are the Spring Meadows and the Summer Forests, each season having its own domain, but winter is the season of death, and her denizens welcome it, celebrate it, glory in it.

Éponine and Enjolras's days are spent in busy preparation for the grand, end-of-the-year festivals, but their nights are spent in play, and she teaches him more about pleasure than he ever imagined.

"Don't move," Éponine commands him one night as she ties a length of finely-woven cloth around his eyes.

"But why are you—ow!" he says as she nips his shoulder, and then licks the mark.

"Sweet chaos, I really _am_ going to have to train you to obey me without questioning me, aren't I?" she murmurs, lazily stroking his chest. "You don't seem to understand the finer points of this game."

"What do you—_ah_!" he gasps as she bites down on him, not just nipping him this time.

He squirms against her. It's painful but also oddly…not.

"If you question me, I will bite you again. Nod if you understand," she tells him, whispering right against his ear, and he shivers. Somehow, not being able to see her makes her voice even more erotic than usual, the sound of it low and husky and edged with lust and dominance.

He nods blindly.

She makes a pleased humming sound. "Good. If you say or do anything I do_not_ tell you to do, I will also bite you. Nod if you understand."

He nods again.

"_Very _good. Now you're getting the hang of it." She kisses his shoulder, right over the bite marks, and he can feel the curve of her smile. "And see? If you're a good boy and do as I say, you get rewarded."

"But what if I—" he begins to say, and she immediately bites down, hard enough to leave a bruise. He shudders but grits his teeth, getting the words out past the pain. "What if I_ want_ you to bite me?" he asks, genuinely curious

Éponine stops touching him entirely, her warm weight against his back abruptly gone, and he turns his head, mildly worried. "Did I say something wrong?"

Suddenly, he's pushed down with his arms held above his head, one of her hands pressing painfully against his crossed wrists, keeping him captive. He can feel her settling herself over his hips, and then she's kissing him, all teeth and tongue and wicked skill, and he's arching up to her in blind pleasure, literally as the case turns out to be, the cloth still tight around his eyes so that all he has to guide him is touch and sound and scent.

"Oh, little one," she murmurs. "You can't say such things to me. I'll think you're serious."

"But I am," he says, tilting his head back, half-delirious with desire, waiting for her bite, her kiss, pleasure and pain all the same to him, so long as she's the one doling it out.

"Dangerous words, little one," she tells him. "_Very_ dangerous words. Do you want me to play this game seriously with you? Nod if you would like that."

He nods carefully, and soon he can feel her smile against his throat, right against his jugular. "My little one," she purrs, "my perfect, marvelous boy. I am going to enjoy you so, so much."

He shudders.

The next few hours are an indistinct fog of pain and pleasure, one blending seamlessly into the other as she uses the sheets to tie him down, leaving him helpless and at her mercy. She alternates between soft, slow kisses and gentle caresses, and brutal bites and painful pinches whenever he makes the slightest sound.

He soon finds that the more he disregards her commands—moaning louder when she tells him to be quiet, struggling against his bonds when she tells him to be still—the harder she hurts him, nails raking down his back and leaving jagged scratches, bruises blooming on his skin, teeth marks showing where she's savaged him.

He's hard and aching and ready to beg by the time she bites down viciously on the jut of his hipbone, scraping her teeth painfully over his flesh, and when he lets out a whimper, she bites down harder, causing him to arch up in mute agony.

Or is it agony? He's not really certain anymore, hovering on the edge of pain and pleasure, both driving him closer to ecstasy anyway.

"Quiet," she commands, and the tone in her voice—assertive, confident, absolutely sure that he won't dare disobey—has him shutting up and biting down on his lip hard enough to draw blood as she starts pressing soft kisses to the raw skin of his thighs.

He doesn't want to give in, but he also wants her so _badly_, and sweet chaos, he can say silent long enough as long as she ends it soon.

_Please, please, please_, he thinks. _I can't take much more of this_.

As if she can read his mind, her mouth curves against his skin in a smile he still can't see, her warm breath ghosting out along with one single word: "Beg."

And suddenly the words burst out from him like a river overflowing its banks.

"Please," he begs as he hasn't begged since that first night. "Please, Éponine, please, please do it, please, I want it so much. Please, I'll do anything, please, please, _please_."

And then he's gasping, blinking in the unexpected surge of light as she rips the blindfold off his eyes, tossing it aside as she gets on top of him and takes him into her and—yes, yes, this is what he wanted, yes, this, her hands digging into his shoulders, her knees leaving bruises on his sides, her teeth biting down, biting down, biting down, his pulse beating frantically against her greedy mouth.

She comes first with a low, ragged moan, and then she's talking again, tugging on his hair hard so he's looking up at her. "Open your eyes," she muttering. "Open your eyes and look at me, I want you to look at me, yes, like that, look at me, damn you. I want you to see who's doing this to you. I want you to know who's marking you, who's making you come, who _owns_ you."

"You do," he babbles. "You do, you do, please, Éponine, please, please, I want—" He's cut off with a strangled cry as she suddenly slaps him, full across the face. He's shuddering and reeling and still, _still_ he's begging.

She leans down and presses kisses to his stinging skin. "Do you want to come?" she murmurs. "Do you want to come for me?"

"Yes, yes, please, Éponine, please, I want to come for you, please," he begs.

She whispers in his ear, "Then come for me _now_."

He goes blind with pleasure as her hips slam down and his body arches up to meet her, screaming himself hoarse as he finally, finally comes for her.

* * *

Afterwards, he's curled tight around her, head resting against her breast as she gently massages the feeling back into his now-unbound wrists with one hand, and uses the other to trace over every mark she left on him.

He feels small and helpless and vulnerable, and he _revels _in it. It's an odd feeling, especially since he usually likes having at least some control, but it was…wonderful, letting her have all of it. Letting her use him, and being used.

He snuggles closer, burying his face in the crook of her neck and sighing contentedly, thoughts still hazy and drowsy with pleasure.

"Hmm," she says idly, petting his hair in a gesture of pure possessiveness. "After _that_ performance, it's a good thing I didn't decide to whip you in punishment, all those months ago. I think you might have liked it, and that would have been entirely against the point."

He is struck by the memory of her, whip in hand, blood staining her robes red, looking absolutely powerful and beautiful and _glorious_, and he whimpers in sudden, aching want, his body stirring in desire once more.

She makes a shocked noise, and he looks up to find her staring down at him. "You _do_ want that?" she asks, incredulous, shifting her thigh against his hard length.

He flushes and pulls away from her. "I'm sorry," he says automatically, not entirely sure what he's sorry for, exactly, but somehow coming to the dawning realization that he shouldn't want that, that he shouldn't have wanted anything that happened tonight.

What kind of person _wants_ to be hurt? None of his friends ever talked such of things when they spoke of their exploits, and he is struck by the sudden awareness that he must be some sort of freak.

"I'm sorry," he says again, keeping his eyes averted.

"Enjolras," she says, stretching out a hand and cupping his face, turning him so he's looking at her. She's smiling softly, tenderly, and she pulls him back down so he's resting against her once more. "I don't want you to be sorry. There's nothing to be sorry about." She presses a fond kiss to his temple even as her hand travels down his body, caressing his chest, his abdomen, his thighs.

He shudders against her. "But I shouldn't want—"

"No," she says firmly. "You are allowed to want whatever you want. And I will give you whatever you want, do you understand?"

He nods, still half-remembering the game they just played, and she smiles again, a little mischievously this time.

"Nothing you want is bad," she tells him. "Anything that makes you feel good is good, as long as it doesn't hurt anybody else to do so."

"Even if what I want is to _be_ hurt?" he asks, painfully aware of the marks she's left on him, the scratches and the bites and the bruises, and feeling ashamed over the way he'd begged her to place them on him.

"Yes," she says. "Even if what you want is to be hurt. Do you think that I'm bad for wanting to hurt you, if you let me? If you wanted me to? Do you think it would be bad if I asked you later to bite me and bruise me, and tie me and take me the way that I took you tonight?"

He licks dry lips and shakes his head. Her desire is beautiful, perfect, and he'll give her whatever she wants, whenever she wants, anything at—

"Oh," he says, suddenly understanding. "Oh."

"Mmhm," she says, kissing him languidly.

"But—"

"No buts," Éponine repeats.

He stubbornly persists anyway. "But I don't understand _why_ I want this—do other people feel this way?"

Éponine shrugs. "Some people do, some people don't. It simply depends. There's nothing bad about it—some people just want different things."

He sighs before settling back down. "I never even used to want to share anyone's bed—not men, not women, and I was fine with it, no matter what my friends said," he grumbles. "Then I met you, and suddenly I can't keep my hands off you."

She chuckles. "Again, some people just want different things."

"How so?" he asks, not really expecting an answer.

She shrugs. "Like you said—some people don't want to share anyone's bed. Combeferre, for example. He's been in relationships with women, though, but it's usually conversation and companionship he wants, not love-making."

She traces a hand over his shoulder. "There are some people who don't even want that, of course—I've met people who are content with friendship and their own work, and want nothing more."

"Like Mushdamma?" Enjolras asks, naming Erkalla's resident architect and god of bridges and building, who Gilgamesh explained was more aroused by a mathematical conundrum than by any flesh-and-blood woman.

"Yes," Éponine says. "Then you have people who only wish to share women's beds—men like Gavroche, and women like Ninkurra. Then you have people who only wish to share men's beds—"

"Like you?"

"Mmhm. And men like Siyamek. Then you have those who like to share both, like Gilgamesh."

"Where does Grantaire fall?" Enjolras asks, curious, then backtracks. "Or should I not ask—"

"No, no, it's fine. It's no secret that Grantaire likes everybody," Éponine says dryly. "Men, women, even river spirits of indeterminate gender. He's very free with his favor, and people favor him in turn." She chuckles. "He's gotten into trouble once or twice because of it, but it usually sorts itself out. I like to tease him, because he's so very…_not _picky, even more so than most, and he likes to tease me because I'm the complete opposite."

"Picky?" Enjolras says.

"I like to call it 'selective'," Éponine replies. She runs a hand through his hair. "And then you have those who are very, very selective—those who don't want to share anyone's bed unless they…care for that person."

Enjolras blushes and looks down, because it's obvious from the way she's looking at him, a tender light in her eyes, that she's describing him.

And he can't even deny it—she's the only one he's ever wanted, having been more than half in love with her even before they met, every kiss, every touch a silent confession of the depth of his feelings.

She presses a close-mouthed kiss to his temple. "Don't hide from me, little one," she murmurs. "I…I care for you, too."

His heart warms at her declaration—it's not love, not yet, but he has the rest of his life to earn that.

He is hers now, and she is his, and it is all he's ever wanted.

* * *

**Endnote: We hope you liked it! Please review and tell us what you think. :)**


	10. He Who Is Kept

**Author Note: Welcome to the tenth chapter of ****_In the Land Between Rivers, I Have Loved You._**** Thank you for reading.**

**Also, this chapter is ****_very_**** NSFW. If sex during periods makes you uncomfortable, then this is****_ not_**** the chapter for you. Please do not read it. Thank you.**

**Disclaimer: I am not Victor Hugo. I do not own the book, the musical, or the film, and I certainly do not own the characters.**

* * *

**Chapter Ten: He Who Is Kept**

* * *

In the morning, he wakes to an empty bed, and fights a mild sense of disappointment. He likes it best when she's still asleep beside him, and he can have his fill of looking at her without worrying about having to hide the adoration in his eyes.

But she's a queen, of course, and she doesn't have the time to indulge the childish whims of a love-struck boy, and he knows he shouldn't want her to.

So he shrugs on his clothes—deep blue robes that match his eyes, another gift from Éponine—wincing a bit as he does so, and blushing as he becomes torridly aware of all the bruises and aches she's left with him, and makes his way through his rooms, ready to meet the day and fulfill his duties.

He stops in surprise when he reaches his sitting room.

There's a plate of breakfast waiting for him, full of his favorite combination of sweet fruits and fresh milk and flaky bread. There are small, lovely jasmine blossoms resting beside it, their fragrance the same as the woman who left them there for him to find.

He lifts one to his nose and inhales, feeling a sweet ache rise up in him at the thoughtful gesture.

He tucks it discreetly behind his ear, sure that his riot of curls will hide it, and tries not to feel like the love-struck boy he is when he sits down and eats the food she chose for him.

He doesn't entirely succeed, and his thoughts are still soft, slow, and dreamy when he gets to the chambers where the Lesser Councils hold their meetings, and his attention wanders more than it should.

His friends take notice and grin at him indulgently.

"So who is it that's finally managed to seduce you, Nergal?" Ninkurra asks, her smile wide and knowing as she looks at him.

"What?" he asks, sitting up straight. Gilgamesh gives him a warning glance, and he feels a hollow sort of dread settle in his stomach. Those closest to Éponine know that he's her lover, of course, but neither they nor her loyal servants have appeared to breathe a word to anyone else, and she seems in no hurry to announce their…well, their relationship, for lack of a better word, to anyone else.

She just admitted that she cared for him last night; he doesn't want to jeopardize such a confession by boasting of it, as if her regard is a prize to be won, as if her feelings were anything other than a gift.

He is wondering how he let their relationship slip when Ninkurra discreetly taps the base of her throat, and Enjolras flushes as he realizes that the robes he chose this morning do nothing to hide the bites Éponine has left on him.

His hand comes up to hide one, and Siyamek teasingly says, "You're going to need about three more hands if you want to cover all of them. Whoever your new lover is, they're very thorough."

"Don't tell us if you don't want to," Damkinna, a goddess of old age, says kindly. "We're simply happy you're adjusting so well."

"I bet our Lady won't be half so happy," Geshta says. He's a minor demon, one of those who held onto his grudge against Enjolras for disrespecting his queen longer than most. "It's well enough that he doesn't reveal his lover; you know she wanted to be the one to bed him." He glances at Enjolras, his expression frosty and distant. "Though only chaos knows what she sees in him," he mutters.

Enjolras narrows his eyes, but Gilgamesh intervenes before he gets a chance to reply.

"You're jealousy's showing again, Geshta," Gilgamesh says, and Geshta bares his teeth in a snarl.

"Enough," Enjolras says, slamming his hand down upon the table. "Who I am or am not laying with is not a matter up for discussion—we have accommodations for the newly dead, concerns about flooding in the western banks, and all the preparations for the end-of-the-year festivals to worry about."

The others sheepishly nod and murmur in agreement, and soon they're back to work, making steady progress before being interrupted again a half hour later.

"I see you're all doing well," a husky, infinitely beloved voice proclaims, and Enjolras resist the urge to whip his head around and grin at her like an idiot. "How do the preparations go? Any issues you need the Greater Council to resolve?" Éponine asks as she enters the room.

The others immediately stand and bow as she sweeps past them and takes her seat opposite Enjolras. As always, he gives a nod of respect, dutifully keeping his face impassive.

Éponine apparently feels no urge to do the same, and she gives him an impish grin as she settles back on her seat before glancing around at the others. "So?"

"Things are moving along splendidly, my Lady," Ninkurra says. "No problems you need to—" She cuts off, eyes widening as Éponine tosses her hair over her shoulder, revealing a set of bruises on her skin that matches Enjolras's own.

Everyone else goes still, and he can see speculative glances dart from him to her as the entire Lesser Councils strive for nonchalance.

They fail miserably, he thinks, disgruntled.

"We're fine," he says, drawing the attention to him. "Though it would be helpful if we could get a final word on the budget for the festivals this year."

She waves a hand. "No need to worry about expenses; we're richer than any other realm five times over."

He frowns at her, she grins at him, and the others relax as they fall into their usual banter, though he can still feel the weight of their curiosity hanging in the room.

He thinks nothing will come of it, the crisis mostly averted—at least until the meeting is adjourned and the others stand to rise, Éponine rising with them.

Instead of waiting by her seat for him to come to her, however, she walks to him and calmly, deliberately traces the line of his shoulders, her lips quirking and her eyes sparkling as startled gasps and whispers fill the room.

It is the first time she's ever touched him while they're in public, he realizes, and shivers beneath the light brush of her fingers, knowing that under the Underworld's laws of hospitality, this innocent touch means so much more than it would in the realms above.

It means he's given her permission to touch him; it means he's placed himself under her care—and it means she's accepted it, welcomed it, and wants to make her claim clear.

She's announced that they're lovers as obviously as if she'd stripped him and taken him there on the table for everyone to see.

"Shall we go to dinner, little one?" she says, pointedly ignoring everyone's dawning smiles and pleased murmurs, eyes only on him. "I've missed you today."

He reaches up a hand and places it over hers and wordlessly nods.

She loops an arm through his when he stands, and they exit the room that way, Enjolras catching Gilgamesh's broad grin and roguish wink as they pass.

"They'll find something else to gossip about in a few weeks," Éponine says, laying her head against his shoulder. "But do forgive me—I couldn't help showing off a little. And, well, I've never been one to hide my favor." She traces her fingers over his still-bruised wrists, and one hand comes to rest against the small of his back, palm spread flush against the scratches beneath his clothes. "I hope you don't mind too much."

_Being mine, and others knowing_, she doesn't say, but he hears it anyway.

"Not at all," he replies as he shudders. "Not at all."

(He feels her fingers curl in the same way her mouth does as she smiles at him, exultant, possessive, wickedly _glorious_.)

…

It turns out to be a lie, or at the very least a mistaken assumption on his part.

Idealistically, Enjolras had not expected the way others treated him to change—though everything has changed between him and Éponine, it seems to him a private thing, and he himself is not much different a person than he was all those months ago when he first arrived, though admittedly a tad more yielding and a bit more humble and certainly more carnally experienced.

Therefore, when he first visits one of the towns—a large, prosperous one in the eastern region, one he's been to half a dozen times—he doesn't expect all the inhabitants to fall to their knees before him.

"My lord," they murmur respectfully, touching their foreheads to the ground.

"Get up," he commands, voice harsher than he intends, and they automatically flinch. He bites down on his lip and gets his anger under control before speaking again. "There is no need to kneel to me," he says eventually.

They get to their feet and take his words in, but every city and village he goes to reacts in the exact same way, each and every time he visits, no matter how he begs of them to stop.

The other gods do the same, albeit some grudgingly. Even the members of the Lesser Councils bow to him now, including Gilgamesh of all people, and though he has become used to their respect and deference, this level of quiet reverence disturbs him.

He finds every denizen of the Underworld treating him with slightly more distance and infinitely more worship now—demons court his favor, spirits seek his approval, and people he _knows_ dislike him suddenly reverse their behavior and ply him with compliments and offer him favors.

He nearly chokes in shock when even the elder gods—those who sit on the Great Council, those who have lived centuries longer than he has, those who bend knee to none save Éponine—when even _they_ bow low when he passes.

He knows, objectively, that he probably rivals or even surpasses some of them in power, but few of them have barely done more than acknowledge him with a nod, the same he offers them.

So to have Gugulanna, the feared Terror of the Deeps, bowing down before him is more than baffling.

It's frightening.

…

"I don't understand," Enjolras says, tapping his fingers restlessly against the table as he and Combeferre play the Royal Game. "Why are they doing this?"

Combeferre raises a brow at him as he calmly moves a piece. "Do you not?"

"Obviously I don't, or I wouldn't be asking you," Enjolras spits out, before running a hand over his face and letting out a harsh breath. "I'm sorry. That was out of line."

Combeferre merely steeples his fingers and observes him. "This…truly bothers you," he says, a faint note of surprise in his voice.

"Why wouldn't it?" Enjolras asks, furrowing his brows.

"Well…" Combeferre searches for the right words. "…you came here because you refused to bow to our queen. One would suppose that kind of man is the type to revel in others bowing to him instead, or at the very least accept it as his due."

"I don't believe in bowing or scraping or any of this nonsense at all!" Enjolras says, fist slamming down on the table in his passion. "I believe we should be judged on our merits and our skills, in how well we perform our duties and how we contribute to the good of all—wasting time on petty power struggles and keeping up a rigid and often useless hierarchy is something I refuse to accept."

He sighs and tugs angrily on his hair. "I thought things were different here," he admits. "I was wrong about Éponine, I see that now—or, well, wrong about some things, she could still use some improvement in the way she—"

"I've heard those arguments before, yes," Combeferre says dryly.

Enjolras grins sheepishly before continuing. "Anyway—things are so different here. The people have a voice; their ruler actively learns about their needs and does her best to fill them; human spirits sit side by side with deities and demons on the governing councils—I thought I left all this old nonsense behind!"

"Ah," Combeferre says, leaning back. "So you think it's nonsense, do you?"

Enjolras frowns. "Don't you?"

His friend looks at him impassively. "We live by the old ways," Combeferre says. "We live by death and darkness and cold, cruel necessity. There is power in the way we do things, power that rests in following the ancient laws that govern the Underworld.

"Éponine is ruled by Erkalla as much as she rules it.

"Though you look at us and see new methods of doing things, see freedom where in the world above you saw shackles, the truth is that if Éponine tried to rule the Erkalla in the same way her father rules the heavens—with rigid hierarchies, with strict adherence to every letter of the law—the system would collapse.

"The gods of death are the gods of life at its most powerful; they are the gods of chaos. The freedom you perceive is anarchy, barely leashed; lawlessness, yoked by law. And the one who enforces order, who uses the spirit of the law to chain the denizens of death, is Éponine.

"She knows the balance—she knows how much freedom to give and how much to take, when to bend and when to break, where to yield and where to stand firm.

"And you see, all this 'nonsense,' as you put it, all this bowing and scraping, all of it is a constant reminder to everyone of who holds the leash, who places the yoke upon us, who chains us and holds us together. Who keeps us whole. It's a sign of our respect for her power, an acknowledgement of the pact we made—if we do not rebel, she will not crush us.

"Do you think Dumuzi is the only god she's punished? Only seven beings in the entire history of the world have killed a god, and she is one of them. Only three of those have slain more than one, and she is one of them. Only one has the power to do so and ensure they stay that way, and she is that one."

Enjolras swallows hard.

"Do you see why it was such an insult when you refused to bow to her?" Combeferre asks. "Do you understand now, seeing all she is responsible for, all she holds sway over, why it is she could not let stand such an obvious challenge to her power?"

Enjolras nods.

"Good. Then please, my friend, accept the respect our citizens show you as her lover—they are not showing it only to you, but to her. They are accepting her choice of near-equal and recognizing whom she has graced with her favor. And if it seems a little lonelier, a little colder to have this distance between you and your friends, remember that our Lady has lived with it nearly all her life, and that distance from others is the price you pay for closeness to her."

"I understand," Enjolras says.

And now, he truly does.

…

"Gavroche tells me you do not like it when the others bow to you," Éponine says that night in bed as she holds him to her.

He is facing away from her, like always, so he cannot gauge her mood from anything other than the tone of her voice, which is suspiciously neutral. "It's a mild inconvenience, yes," he says carefully.

"I see."

They rest for a few moments in silence.

"Would you like us to hide this, then?" she says eventually, smoothing a hand over his hip. "We can keep this a secret—they will stop bowing to you if they think you are no longer my lover."

Though there is nothing in her words to suggest it, he thinks he senses a plaintiveness, a vulnerability about her.

He purposefully sighs, making his words as cantankerous as possible. "No. I just have to get used to it, since I plan on staying your lover for a very long time, and it's frankly damned impossible to keep secrets here for long, with your gossipy subjects."

He holds his breath, still a little afraid of her rejection, but her arms only tighten around his waist as she presses kisses to his neck and shoulders, her delighted laughter ringing in his ears.

…

Enjolras is not the only one who learns to adjust; Éponine finds a few surprises waiting for her, as well.

The first is how discomfited he gets over the gifts she leaves him.

To be fair, it is a _little _more than she's given her lovers in the past—perhaps she has never had as many fine robes made, or gold armbands and silver bracelets commissioned, or ordered quite the best carving tools and weapons for any but him.

And she's certainly never picked so many flowers or cooked so many meals by hand for anyone since Azelma (not that she tells him he shares this honor; let him give his praises to her gardeners and cooks—she has her pride after all, though her heart does warm terribly at his compliments).

Every time she leaves his chambers, they are a little more lavish, just a tad more opulent, until he finally looks around, disgruntled, and asks her to stop.

"All of this is unnecessary, you know," he says, gesturing to the beautiful tapestry that now covers one of his walls. "For order's sake, my rooms are starting to rival yours in luxury."

She refrains from pointing out that this is the point. She is used to luxury and fine things and many comforts, and since she spends so much time in his rooms, she will bring those things with her.

Instead, she says, "Why is it unnecessary?"

He shoots her an exasperated look. "I'm already sharing your bed; courting me with your wealth is pointless when you've successfully seduced me."

"Mmm," she says, walking towards him and wrapping her arms around his waist, rubbing her cheek against his shoulder. "But this isn't courting you, little one, this is keeping you in the style that befits you."

He stiffens against her. "Are you telling me," he says icily, "that you consider me your _kept_ paramour?"

_No_, she thinks, _I consider you my own, my sweet little one, mine always and forever._

"If you prefer to see it that way, then yes," she says aloud.

He sucks in an affronted breath—which he lets out in a shaky gasp as she moves one of her hands to rub over his cock. "I—you—_stop that_." Yet his hips arch into her fingers, greedy for more.

"But little one," she says, laughter in her voice, "you've already accepted the tapestry I gave you today. Won't you let me have you, since our relationship is obviously dependent on exchanges of commodities, and not, say, mutual lust and respect?" She moves her hand away and bites back a smile when he reaches for it and places it back on his erection.

"Fine," he says petulantly. "You've made your point."

She squeezes him and relishes his groan of pleasure. "Good," she says, nipping his ear. "Now let's try out the new couch I had made for you."

…

The second surprise is how he courts her in turn.

For every simple bouquet of flowers she leaves him, there is a line of poetry or a verse from hymns written on scraps of paper and hidden in her clothing. And if she hasn't found it by the end of the day, it will drop to their feet as he undresses her, and he recites it against her skin, tongue tracing the words on her body.

For every piece of furniture or clothing she gives him, there is a hand-carved bangle in her jewelry box, his father's tutelage showing in the fine, graceful lines of each of the works, and she starts wearing wood as often as precious metal, savoring the pleased smile that graces his face when he sees his adornments on her.

For every tool or weapon she has made for him, she goes about to find that the argument she was summoned to quell is nearly resolved, or every demon she goes to discipline has already seen the errors of his ways and is eager to apologize, or even that a day of discussion with her Great Council is suddenly much smoother than anticipated, old grudges and slights mysteriously ignored or forgotten.

She has so much more time on her hands, to just enjoy herself, as she hasn't had in years, not since Azelma betrayed her and half her friends abandoned her, back when she had words that weren't sharp and looks that weren't cold and a heart that could feel mercy.

Enjolras doesn't even seem to expect her to spend her newfound time with him, being rather more concerned with keeping the Lesser Councils in line and getting the festivals under way without any troubles.

Still, he comes with her readily enough for walks through the Summer Forests, for picnics in the Spring Meadows, for hushed love-making in the soft grass of the Ever-Dawning Fields, though he flat-out refuses to do so if Aurore and her herd are in the vicinity.

"I'm not coupling with you while the cows are watching—they'll tell Gavroche, I know it," he mutters, resolutely keeping his robes closed.

"Not even to make me happy?" she cajoles.

"Not even to make you happy," he replies.

That's fine with her, because if he makes her any happier, she's certain she'll burst.

(And this is the third and last surprise: that he can make her so happy, simply by being himself.)

…

She hates it when her monthly flow starts, more for the inconvenience than anything else, being lucky enough not to be cursed with the cramps that nearly cripple Azelma. She hates it even more when she has a lover, but she sighs and bears it, and informs Enjolras to keep to his rooms tonight.

He gives her a quizzical look. "Are you coming later?"

She shakes her head ruefully. "No."

He tilts his head. "Have I done something to displease you?"

Éponine pulls him down for a sweet, chaste kiss. "No, little one. It is simply…that time of month."

"Ah," he says, understanding dawning in his eyes. "So you would prefer to be alone?"

She blinks, mildly surprised. Most of her lovers have simply politely withdrawn, no wish to be around her when there's nothing in it for them. "Well, it's more that I won't be able to do anything with you, so I don't want you to have to stay with me," she explains.

He raises a brow at her. "Can't I still sleep with you?" he asks, placing a hand on her hip and drawing her close, nuzzling the side of her neck. "We don't have to make love."

She hugs him tight, inordinately pleased. "If you want to."

"I want to," he replies.

…

They are in their usual position, her front pressed to his back, her leg thrown over her hips, when she remembers another reason why she hates her monthly flow so much:

The incessant, insistent urge to fuck.

She buries her face against her sleeping lover's neck and stifles a groan. The ache between her thighs is nearly unbearable, and she rubs against Enjolras in an attempt to relieve it. He's been her lover for a few weeks—she's not sure she wants to wake him and ask him to take care of her, not when so many of her other lovers have been repulsed by it. So instead she reluctantly pulls away and steals a hand down, rubbing her clit through her nightgown and the bloody cloths, moaning at how sensitive she feels.

"Would you like me to help with that?"

She freezes, and Enjolras turns over and faces her, curious and very much wide awake.

"I thought you were asleep," she says lamely.

He grins. "I was. You woke me up."

Despite herself, she blushes. She hadn't meant to be quite so…loud.

He grins wider and rolls on top of her, kissing her languidly as he settles his hips against hers. She can feel his erection through the thin layers of cloth that separate them, and arches up when he starts rubbing against her swollen clit. He grabs hold of her leg and lifts her up to meet him, and she whimpers. The friction feels so _good_, so right, and soon she's moaning his name, voice low and needy and ragged, but she's too far gone to care, spreading her legs wider and shamelessly rubbing back.

She moans louder when he drops his mouth to her breasts and sucks on her nipples, which are always sensitive and tender during this time of month. He seems to know it, too, because he's oh-so-very-gentle about it, even as he thrusts harder against her.

Every part of her aches and tingles, and it isn't long before she comes, gasping and shuddering and writhing underneath him, bare legs locked tight around his still-clothed hips, the fabric making yet another delicious sensation against her skin. He follows after, groaning, and the two of them are a sticky, sweaty mess, grinning sloppily at each other.

"So…bathing chamber sex in the morning?" he asks.

She kisses him in reply, her mouth curving in a contented smile.

…

It is a few days after that, right before the week-long festival at last begins, that she pulls him away from his work and sequesters him in her rooms.

"But the preparations—"

"—are all but done," she says, rolling her eyes. "You are the only one still fussing."

"Then the new villages—"

"—are mostly planned, and we'll build them after the celebrations." She gives him a sideways glance. "This is _my _realm, and yet I swear you're more worried about the way it's run than I am."

He shrugs. "I want to do right by the people," he says simply.

She kisses him. "You do," she promises, before smiling mischievously. "But right now I want you to do right by me. I haven't had you to myself for a whole day since the my week of rest ended, and chaos knows I'll probably barely see you during the festivities, with the way you run around, convinced you have to oversee everything yourself—"

"I resent that implication," he grumbles.

"—so give me today," she finishes, ignoring his comment. She raises his hands to her lips. "Just one more day?" she pleads.

He finally gives in, leaning his forehead against hers. "_Just_ one more day?" he asks, teasing her.

"Of course not," she tells him, only half-teasing in return. "You know how greedy I get."

_I want forever with you_, she thinks.

(And she does, oh, she _does_, but she'll settle for today, and tomorrow, and however long he gives her.)

"I do know," he says solemnly, though his eyes gleam with laughter. "So what do you want from me, now that you have me all to yourself, my lady?"

"Well," she says, toying with his curls, "I was thinking that we haven't played the Royal Game in a while…"

…

She narrows her eyes at him over the board. "You are losing on purpose, aren't you?"

He raises a brow at her, expression the perfect mix of affronted and incredulous. "I hate losing," he says, completely honest. He truly does hate it, which is why she doesn't understand why he would play so badly—

She shakes her head. Enough. She doesn't like losing either, so she'll keep her head in the game and ignore his odd behavior. Perhaps it's just a strategy to throw her off so he can swoop in for the kill.

It isn't.

At the end, he loses by a full fifteen stones, the worst he's ever done against her, and she smirks at him. "Fifteen orgasms in twenty-four hours. Think you can pull that off, little one?"

He gracefully gets to his knees before her, eagerly spreading her legs. "Mmhm," he murmurs before burying his face between her thighs.

She grips the arms of her chair hard and bites down on her lip, trying not to cry out as he manipulates her clit with his tongue. "You sound confident about that," she says, doing her best to keep her voice steady. "For someone who's still new at—sweet chaos!"

She shudders against his mouth, fingers threading through his curls and pulling him close as he tugs on her lightly with his damned teeth, all sharp nips and soothing tongue, and, oh, she _knew_ he lost on purpose.

She comes with a strangled cry, left boneless and dazed in her chair as he sits back on his heels and grins at her, eyes bright with a predatory hunger.

"One down," he says. "Fourteen to go. Are you sure you can take it, my lady?"

She reaches out a hand and cups his face. "Little one, I never lose," she says seriously. "Do your worst."

His worst turns out to be achingly, mind-blowingly good, and she comes three more times in rapid succession, cursing herself for teaching him quite this well, even as she rides his fingers, his face, his cock, because even though she never loses, she thinks she's on the verge of it now.

They're in bed together, her back pressed to his front, his hand teasing her slick folds open for him, and she's so sensitive she whimpers, screwing her eyes tight and trying to close her legs. It's too much, too good, and the sensation of his fingers stroking her gives her so much pleasure that it falls under the knife-edge of pain instead.

She fists her hands in the sheets and bites down on her lip to stop herself from begging him to stop—she won't lose, she won't give in, she can take this, damn it, she _can_.

But sweet chaos, it's just too much, and when he circles her clit, still swollen and throbbing from her earlier orgasms, she cries out, the sound of it more agonized than blissful.

He immediately pulls his hand away from her, rubbing soothing circles onto her belly instead, and she almost weeps in relief—but she's stubborn, so she reaches behind her to tug on his hair.

"Why'd you stop?" she asks, her voice coming out in a rasp.

He kisses her shoulder. "It looked like it was too much for you."

"It wasn't," she lies. "I'm fine."

"Mmhm," he says doubtfully.

"This doesn't count as a loss if _you're _the one who stops," she insists.

"I know," he says confidently, moving to cup her breast. "And I'm not conceding this game, either, just…tactically retreating, for now." He nuzzles her neck. "I want to make you feel good," he whispers, caressing her from the base of her throat to her bellybutton, and she shivers, skin prickling in tantalizing ways. "And I have all day to do it, so let's take our time."

And they do, going soft and slow and sweet, until she's ready again, until she's whimpering for him to touch her, spreading her legs wide and trying to pull his hand down to her.

She keens when he refuses to let her touch herself, when he instead caresses her knees, her thighs, the soft curve of her hips, anywhere but where she needs him most.

"Say it," he tells her, breath hot against the shell of her ear. "Say what you want. Politely."

"Please," she begs, as she's never begged for anything in her entire life. "Please, oh, please, please touch me, please."

And he does, gently and tenderly, and she needs more friction, more heat, but all he's giving her is light caresses—she wants him to hurt her, damn him, but he won't, he doesn't, he hurts her with pleasure like always.

"Do you want more?" he asks, so very courteously, the tone of his voice at odds with the way his fingers are toying with her.

"Yes," she mewls as he circles her clit, her voice needy and desperate.

"Then ask for it," he tells her.

"Please, oh, please," she asks, squirming against him, but he pulls back. "Please, what more do you want from me?"

"You know what I want," he says.

She does.

"Damn you." She bites down on her lip. "Damn you, damn you, damn you—oh, sweet chaos, please, damn you, you win, please, please—_just touch me already_."

"Good," he says, his mouth curving into a self-satisfied smirk right before he removes his fingers and thrusts into her, his kiss swallowing her scream.

And they spend the rest of the day like that, switching from sweet and slow and soft back to rough and fast and hard, and back again until she loses count of how many times he's made her come, game forgotten entirely in favor of losing herself in him, in them together, in the long, lovely hours where they pretend that the rest of the world doesn't exist.

* * *

**Endnote: We hope you liked it! Please review and tell us what you think. :)**


	11. She Who Crowns a King

**Author Note: Welcome to the eleventh chapter of ****_In the Land Between Rivers, I Have Loved You._**** Thank you for reading.**

**This chapter is, again, very NSFW. You have been warned and/or helpfully informed.**

**Disclaimer: I am not Victor Hugo. I do not own the book, the musical, or the film, and I certainly do not own the characters.**

* * *

**Chapter Eleven: She Who Crowns a King**

* * *

"So is Joly the friend of yours who's a god of war?"

They're tangled together in her bed, her arms wrapped tight around his waist as she nuzzles his shoulder contentedly, the late morning sunlight streaming through her windows.

He runs his hand over her bare back, pulling her a little closer and smiling. "No, Joly's a god of illness. You're thinking of Bahorel. He and Courfeyrac are the gods of war."

He's spent the last two hours or so telling her stories about his childhood and his life before coming here. She'd paid rapt attention, even sharing a few stories of her own, the two of them comparing how the world above had changed in her absence. She has a particular curiosity about his friends and siblings, and he is currently obliging her, letting her test what she's learned about them.

She blinks a little and frowns. "Hmm. Strange to think that there are gods of war I haven't met; Azelma always used to bring new ones down with her when—"

She cuts herself off, a strange look filling her eyes.

"Azelma?" he asks.

"Inanna," she corrects herself. "You know her as Inanna."

_Oh_, Enjolras thinks, suddenly recognizing the look as sadness. _Oh_.

"Well, I would be glad that she's never brought Bahorel to visit," he says, deliberately changing the subject. "Had he been a guest here, I doubt your halls would have survived it."

She looks at him, her eyes knowing though her lips still quirk in amusement. "No? You think not?"

"I _know_ they wouldn't have," he teases. "He and Courfeyrac once completely wrecked my parents' banquet hall, you know, and they were just past our coming-of-age."

"Oh? I have a little more faith in my architects," she says. "My halls were built to hold gods of war and chaos and death. They wouldn't fall so easily."

"Well, I suppose it's a moot point since he'll never visit here," Enjolras says, sighing.

"Mm," Éponine says noncommittally, and something about the way she's studiously avoiding his eyes rouses his curiosity.

"What?" he says, suspicious.

"Nothing," she says, shaking her head. "So, Bahorel and Courfeyrac were given war, but Joly was tasked with sickness, like you were assigned plague?" This time it's her that changes the subject, but Enjolras decided to let it pass—for now.

"Not quite. Joly and Bahorel were assigned their posts, yes, but I chose plague," he answers.

She sits up, astonished. "You _chose_ plague?"

"Yes," he says, frowning. "You didn't know that?"

"No. I assumed—" She cuts herself off, tilting her head and staring at him. "Gods rarely choose to hold allegiance to me, and most of those suited to be a god of death have their office forced on them. I thought you were one of them."

"Well, I'm not," he says, a little insulted.

"But why? Why choose plague?" she persists.

He sighs. "Because gods of death are those closest to humans when they suffer the most. I wanted…" He trails off, unsure of how to explain himself.

A touch to his shoulder brings his gaze back to hers. "You wanted to help them," she says, understanding. "To make their pain a little easier to bear, even if you were the one delivering the cause of it."

He nodded, and she lies back down, moving her hand to cup his face. "How much kinder you are than I," she said, tracing his cheekbones. "I never would have chosen death."

Enjolras remembers the long-ago conversation with Gilgamesh, how the other man had said that Éponine hadn't had a choice in her station. "What did you want to be?" he asks, curious, then hastily backtracks. "I mean, you don't have to answer—"

"No, it's fine," she says, running her hand through his hair. She grins a little, though it doesn't quite reach her eyes. "I wanted to be the goddess of night," she admits.

"Of night?" he says, surprise plain on his face. That would have placed her far lower on the gods' hierarchy than the place she currently occupied—it was a little odd to think of her as anything other than a queen of her own realm.

Her grin widens, and this time her eyes smile, too. "Funny, I know. But, well, I always loved the sky at night—how beautiful it was, how sunset would turn it deep reds and oranges that would bleed into darker purples and blues, until finally it was pitch-black, except for the stars. No moon, of course—your sister hadn't been born yet."

She sighs wistfully. "If I'd been a goddess of night, I would have been a sky deity like my father. I thought it would let me stay close to him and my mother and sister. Things didn't work out that way, though."

"What happened?" he asks.

She shrugs, expression quietly pensive. "Someone had to rule Erkalla, and only a child of Anu would have strong enough. I was better suited to it than—than Azelma was, so when Father offered me the realm, I said yes." She smiles again. "I like to think I've done a good job of it, though I know certain people disagree."

He blushes. "I said I was wrong about that," he protests.

"I know," she says, chuckling as she kisses him. "Doesn't mean I'll let you forget it, though."

He would say more, but she's moving over him, and he recognizes the look in her eyes.

Any arguments he has are lost as he loses himself in her, in them together, in the pleasure that takes them both.

* * *

After lying with her, they talk again for some times, but eventually Enjolras gets an unreadable look in his eyes and rises from the bed, gesturing her to come with him.

He seats himself down in one of her armchairs, and grasps her hand when she moves to sit across from him, tugging her so she falls into his lap instead. From there, he moves his lips against hers in slow, easy patterns, his hands tracing all over her body until she's moaning in gratification.

"Open your eyes," he eventually commands her, and she does, lifting lids heavy with pleasure to stare somewhat unseeingly in front of her. She doesn't know why he asks her to do this—there's nothing on the table before them except a few scrolls, the game board, and an hourglass whose sand has nearly run out—

_Oh_, she thinks, shuddering against him. Oh, earth and air, he couldn't be serious, he couldn't actually have been keeping _track_.

The curve of his smile against her neck suggests he _has_, however, and his next words confirm it: "One: on my knees, using my mouth. Two: in this chair, using my fingers. Three: on that couch over there, letting you ride my cock. Four: also on the couch, that time using my mouth again."

"_Enjolras_," she says, her voice coming out in a gasp, her nails digging deep into the polished wood of the armrests, her back arching so that the only thing keeping her in the chair is his hand on her waist, holding her to him. The other, of course, is still toying with her clit, rubbing her in all the right ways, and between his fingers and his words, she's on the verge of shattering completely.

He continues as if she hadn't said anything at all. "Five: in bed, taking you from behind, after you asked for it so politely." The hand between her legs moves to palm her breast instead, and she keens from the loss of contact.

"Please, Enjolras, _please_," she begs, nearly too far gone to care that she's lost this game of theirs completely. Nearly.

"Yes, just like that, actually," he says a tad smugly, and she lifts a hand from its death-grip on the chair to dig her nails into his flesh instead, but he takes it in his and brings it back down to her core, using her own fingers to manipulate her, and she has to bite back a sob at how good it feels.

"Six: also in bed, me on top. Seven: still in bed, you on top, so it was fast and rough," he says, voice going low and husky as he moves their fingers in quick, torturous circles. "Eight was in your bathing chambers, and so was nine, and ten was against the wall. Eleven was on the floor, using my mouth and fingers—" He thrusts one of those fingers inside her, and she moans, writhing against him. "—but we made it back to the bed for twelve. I liked twelve; you let me take my time with it, and you were so beautiful, just hovering on the edge of release, with your eyes dark and your skin flushed and every inch of you trembling as I touched you."

She whimpers. Sweet chaos, his _words_—he's always been a fiery speaker, a passionate orator, but she's never, ever had a lover before who could make her feel as if he was making love to her with his voice alone. "Damn you," she spits out, screwing her eyes shut tight.

He kisses her shoulder, then the spot where the line of her neck meets the edge of her jaw, and then finally the corner of her mouth. "Then we went to sleep, and you were wrapped around me, just like always. Have I told you yet how much I like that? I swear you cut off my circulation sometimes, but it's a fair enough trade to go to sleep with your heartbeat pressed to my back."

Her heartbeat is thundering like a storm right now and she knows he can feel it right against the palm of his hand that he's using to keep her pressed close to him.

"Thirteen was good, too—I like making love in the mornings, when the sun's shining through your windows, and you stretch yourself over me so I can see all of you. You came with a sigh that time, easy and gentle. Fourteen was the complete opposite—you screamed my name instead."

She bites down hard on her lip to keep from screaming now. She doesn't want to give him the satisfaction.

"Fifteen…well, we're on fifteen at the moment," he says, flicking his thumb hard over her clit, and she's so, _so_ close, just a little more. She arches her hips up against him and places one hand over her mouth to keep herself from begging.

"So," he asks, "do you want to come for me? Or would you rather I lose our little wager? Your choice, my lady."

"I hate you," she says, and from the way his fingers start moving faster against her, she knows he's correctly interpreted what she wants.

"As you wish," he replies, and she would say something caustic and scathing if she wasn't too busy crying out in ecstasy as he brings her over the edge, her release tearing violently through her.

* * *

Afterwards, she lies sprawled in a boneless, pliant heap across his lap, limbs heavy with satisfaction and eyes closed in mild exhaustion. Enjolras presses a kiss to her cheek as he gathers her up against him, smoothing her hair away from her sweat-dampened face.

She forces herself to stir, attempting to sit up.

"Where are you going?" he asks, and she's definitely not imagining the note of smug amusement in his voice.

"Nowhere," she replies a tad crossly. She can feel his erection pressing against the curve of her ass, and after that performance, taking care of him is the least she can do. She shifts so that she's facing him, straddling him, and opens her legs invitingly.

He kisses her once and then pulls back. "You're tired," he says.

"And whose fault is that?" She rolls her eyes. "I'm fine," she insists, pressing her breasts to against his torso and taking a distinct pleasure in the way his eyes darken with lust. She kisses his jaw, feeling the muscles clench underneath her lips as he swallows hard.

"Take me to bed," she murmurs.

And he does, scooping her up and carrying her there with one arm hooked under her knees and the other around her shoulders, while hers wrap tight around his neck.

Once they get there, however, he pulls the covers over her and moves away. "Go to sleep," he says. "The festivals start tonight and you need your rest."

She frowns at him. "I'm fi—" she attempts to say, a yawn interrupting her midway through the sentence, and he grins cheekily at her.

"Alright," she mutters. "Maybe I am a little tired."

He chuckles, and she takes the opportunity to throw the sheets off, leaving her body bare.

His eyes track the movement before darting back to her face. "What are you doing?"

"Touch yourself," she says huskily. "Look at me and touch yourself. I want to see."

"Éponine—" he says warningly.

"What? This doesn't require any work at all on my part, and I swear I'll go to sleep afterwards." She pillows her head on one arm, keeping her eyes on his.

He licks his lips and swallows before slowly moving a hand to fist around his erection, sliding it up and down as she watches. His gaze travels over her body, lingering on the swell of her breasts, the lean lines of her legs, but he always, always comes back to her face, staring at her features with naked desire and that-something-else she doesn't want to name.

"Did you ever touch yourself and think of me? Before we became lovers?" she asks to distract herself as his breathing quickens and his hips begin to jerk uncontrollably.

"Yes," he groans. "All the time."

"Just like this?"

"Just like this," he affirms.

"Good," she says, "because I used to do the same and think of you."

His eyes clench tight and his mouth opens wide on a soundless cry as he comes at her words, and she thinks she's seen few things as beautiful as his pleasure.

He cleans himself up, a blush staining his cheeks a mortified red as he avoids her eyes, and she feels a rush of affection at his continued shyness. He likes touching her and kissing her and pleasing her, but letting her do the same to him—or worse, letting her watch as he pleases himself—still embarrasses him a little.

Still, he comes to rest beside her obediently enough when she stretches out her arm, and she wraps her body around his, closing her eyes and finally letting herself sleep, content with the knowledge that he is right there dreaming alongside her.

* * *

When she wakes, he is gone, and she knows he left to prepare for the week-long festivals, the end of the year come at long last, winter giving way to spring—but before the season of death breathes its last, Erkalla's citizens would revel in it one last time.

And their queen would celebrate with them, and do it in style.

So she moves to the carved cedar chests that hold her clothes and begins dressing herself for the occasion.

And if the dress she happens to pick is red…well, her people know she is fond of the color. What does it matter that it is her lover's favorite, too?

Still, she slips on the finely woven cloth and smiles, imagining the look in his eyes when he first sees her, and knowing that he won't be able to look away.

* * *

Enjolras stands with the Lesser Councils as they wait with the other gods and demons in the great hall, anticipation hanging in the air, the energy high and barely leashed, the usually solemn denizens of the Underworld abandoning seriousness in favor of celebration.

Beside him, Gilgamesh grins, eyes bright with humor. "Here's to winter's death," he says, nudging him with his shoulder.

Enjolras would reply, but at that moment, a gong sounds and the doors to the hall open slowly, a figure dressed in bold, passionate red striding between them, her head held high.

A jeweled crown rests on her brow, and strings of agates and pearls adorn her neck, with rings of lapis lazuli and jasper on her fingers, and carnelian stones hanging from her ears. Gold and silver bangles grace her wrists and ankles, but he spies a wooden bracelet or two, as well, and his heart clenches, knowing she's chosen to wear the things he's made for her.

Enjolras can't take his eyes off her, can only stare as she walks toward her throne, captivated by her beauty.

He's so captivated, in fact, that he doesn't notice that once again everyone has fallen to their knees except for him, realizing it only when she stops to stand before him, a smirk on her face.

"Still haven't learned your lesson, little one?" she says, lifting her chin in challenge.

Keeping his eyes on hers, Enjolras dips his head in a nod of acknowledgement. "Apparently not, my lady."

She throws her head back and laughs, and the whole room seems to brighten, smiles appearing on her subjects' faces as they behold her joy. Éponine waves a hand, signaling the others to rise, then she takes hold of Enjolras's arm and pulls him with her.

He goes with her willingly, conscious of the murmurs that follow in their wake, the speculative gleam in the eyes that follow them as they walk to her throne.

When they get there, she stays on her feet and gestures for him to stand on her right side. Grantaire sits in his spot of honor a few feet away, and earlier Enjolras saw Combeferre and Gavroche to the left of the throne.

He is the only one in the whole room on the dais with her, and he knows it means something to the people of Erkalla that she would raise him so high and honor him so openly, but he's not certain what.

He doesn't have time to wonder long, however, because Éponine begins speaking, her voice echoing with power to reverberate through the very bones of the Underworld, the ground trembling beneath their feet in response to her words.

"My people," she says, "the year draws to a close at long last—the conclusion of winter, the last days, the end of the end is upon us. Death comes, and life shall soon begin—so the cycle goes. But tonight, and every night until this year breathes its last, we feast! We dance, we sing, we glory in death, in chaos! We glory in our true natures!"

She lifts her arms high and shouts, "My people! Let the celebration begin!"

And the whole Underworld raises their voices in reply, wildly exultant.

* * *

Most of the week passes by in a blur, the revelry starting at the crack of dawn and continuing well into the night, the time filled with games and feasts and dances and songs.

It seems to him that Éponine is always at the heart of it all, moving as easily amongst the oldest and most terrible of the gods of death as she does amongst the humblest and quietest of human spirits, each of their names falling from her tongue as she greets every face with a wide smile.

He would know, because contrary to her teasing words a few days before, he's right there with her, rarely leaving her side, taking quiet pleasure in the obvious joy she shows.

He's watching her peruse a jeweler's stall (from the way her glance keeps darting onwards him, he's resigned himself to finding yet another armband by his bedside in a few days' time), when Gavroche pops up unexpectedly beside him.

"I've never seen her this happy," he says idly, not even looking at Enjolras, simply watching Éponine as well. "Not even before Azelma betrayed her. You're good for her."

Enjolras turns to face the god of cattle. "Thank you," he says quietly, knowing he's passed some sort of test.

Gavroche nods. "You're welcome. Just—stay good for her. Don't hurt her, because if you do—" and here the other godling grins, the expression fierce and cruel and terrible, "— you'll have me to answer to."

Enjolras grins back, just as fiercely. "Fair enough."

Gavroche finally looks at him, and then laughs. "Knew there was a reason I liked you."

* * *

He notices that she keeps to the sidelines when the music starts and the dancing begins. She sits down, cross-legged, chin in her hands, and simply watches, eyes bright and mouth smiling and fingers tapping the rhythm of the drums against her cheekbones.

Watching her, he's reminded of himself in the realm of the gods, purposely keeping himself apart because he feels the slightest bit out of place—not uncomfortable, not really, but more like he didn't quite belong.

He feels like he belongs here, and though he, too, prefers to stand to the side, even he's joined the circle a few times.

Never Éponine, though—she never dances, and after a day or two of this, he wonders if it's because no one asks her to.

So when the drums start to pound and the crowd's voices lift in song and their feet strike the ground in unison, he walks over to where she's sitting and extends his hand.

"Dance with me?" he asks quietly.

She looks up at him in surprise, and he can see her hesitate for a second or two before placing her hand in his own. "Sure you won't regret this, little one? I'm not exactly the best dancer," she warns.

"I won't," he promises, and he doesn't.

She's a liar, as it turns out; he doesn't know whose standards she's using, because he's never seen a more graceful dancer in his life. She moves fluidly, gracefully against him, her hands locked tight around his neck as she sways her hips and stomps her feet, and she keeps her eyes on his the whole time.

She dances with him, and his heart pounds in his chest, because it feels like he's been waiting for the right partner all his life, and suddenly she's right here in his arms.

She dances with others after that, Gavroche laughingly stealing her from him and swinging her around the circle, but she always comes back to him, and at the end of the night she pulls him close and murmurs in his ear, "Thank you. I haven't danced like this in centuries."

There's a story behind that, he thinks, a story that probably has to do with her sister, but right now her eyes are the same shining dark of the night sky lit by stars, and he has no wish to see them cloud with sadness, so he merely inclines his head and replies, "You're welcome."

He doesn't object when she pulls him further down and kisses him, her smile curving soft against his lips.

* * *

He comes to her chambers on the second to last day of the festivals, dressed in all his finery the way she'd asked—he wears black robes made of the finest woven cloth, silver leaves in his hair and golden bands encircling his wrists, and he looks far grander than he ever did in the world above. Despite being the son of two of the most powerful gods of the pantheon, it appears that being the lover of She Who Rules Alone entitles him to even more luxury than that.

He knocks before quietly entering, ready to escort her to tonight's festivities, and pauses when he sees her.

Éponine is standing at the window, her arms crossed, gazing out over her realm in silence. Her hair is down, loosely flowing over her shoulders and nearly reaching her hips in ash-black waves that look beautiful against the deep green dress she wears. A quiet, pensive look is on her face, contrasting with her wild, vibrant appearance—she could almost be a goddess of spring in that outfit, save the heavy aura of deathly power that surrounds her.

He is almost loathe to draw her attention and mar the picture she makes standing there, but he knows she wouldn't want to be late, so he clears his throat.

She turns from the window and smiles the second she catches sight of him, and his heart stops in his chest.

He's been here before, this exact moment—he's lived it already. In his very first dream of her, just a few days after his coming-of-age, he'd stood in an unfamiliar room—this room, _her_ room he recognizes now—and stared as a beautiful stranger walked towards him, an indefinable look in her eyes.

She walks toward him now, that same expression in her gaze, and he knows even before she reaches him what she will do:

She takes his hands and brings them to her lips, presses a kiss to each palm before looking up at him and saying, "Hello, little one. How was your day?"

In his dreams, he woke at this point.

In the here and now, he says, "I love you," the words rising unbidden to his lips, no less true for all that he didn't mean to say them.

He's never meant anything more.

* * *

"I love you," he says, finally giving name to that-something-else she's seen in his eyes.

Éponine steps back in surprise, and later she will be ashamed to admit that her first impulse was to turn and run.

She's not ready for this, not ready for him to love her, so she pulls her hands from his and says nothing at first, trying to calm her racing heart.

His face instantly falls. "I'm sorry," he says. "You don't have to—I don't expect you to—I'm happy with whatever you can give me."

She's given him her body, and she's given him her name, and she knows in her bones that she's given him her heart as well, but try as she might, the words stick in her throat and she cannot say it.

_They always leave_, the frightened part of her mind tells her. _They always leave if you say it to them. He'll be no different. Don't risk it._

But he's turning away now, and she recognizes the look on his face, recognizes sadness and rejection because she's seen them so many times in the mirror, and his last words come back to her.

_I'm happy with whatever you can give me._

She puts out a hand and urgently turns him around. "If I gave you a crown tomorrow, would you take it?"

He stares at her, confused. "A crown—like the flower crowns I've seen?"

"Yes," she says. "Made by my own hands and given to you freely—would you take it?"

Flower crowns at festivals were meant for sweethearts only, for lovers whom you loved, but here in Erkalla, according to the laws of the dead, if she gave him a crown and he took it, be it silver or gold or plain flowers, then she was crowning him in truth, naming him her equal, declaring him her consort, King of the Underworld as she was Queen.

She thought Uncle Georges might have told him what it meant before he came here, but she opens her mouth to explain anyway when he leans forward and kisses her.

"So you want me to be your sweetheart, is that it?" he says against her lips.

She nods, hoping he'll understand what she means even if she doesn't say it.

"Alright, then," he says. "I will."

* * *

The next day, she stands and waits in her great hall.

"There you are," Grantaire says, striding towards her with a cocky grin on his face, halting when he sees the look on hers. "What's wrong?" He places his glass of wine on the windowsill besides her and rests his hands on her shoulders.

She shakes her head. "Nothing's wrong—not exactly—just—" She sighs and lifts a hand, holding it palm up and moving her other hand over it until a simple crown made of brittle wood, vines, and thorns appears.

Grantaire looks down at it, brows lifting in faint shock.

"What do you think?" she asks him.

"…I'm thinking I'm going to have way too much fun calling the little twerp 'king' and watching him flinch in discomfort."

She smacks his shoulder and tries not to laugh—failing miserably, as it turns out. "So you don't think it's too soon?" she asks.

Grantaire rolls his eyes. "You've courted him for most of a year and you think that's too soon? How many of our cousins have become engaged after all of two days knowing each other?"

"Well, when you put it that way…" she said, grimacing.

"Hey," he says, placing his hand underneath her chin. "Do what makes you happy. Ferre and Gav and I will take care of anything else."

She smiles up at him. "That's what Ferre said, too."

"Yeah? What did Gav say?"

"That you owed him twenty gold coins."

Grantaire curses. "Damn it, I'd hoped he'd forgotten that bet."

This time, she doesn't even bother trying not to laugh.

* * *

"So flower crowns here in Erkalla mean something different than in the world above, right?" Enjolras asks. "I know that in the realm of the gods, usually they just mean 'I want to sleep with you,' but in the mortal realm they carry more commitment, and I'm guessing here it's even more serious? Since practically everything has more meaning here," he finishes, rolling his eyes.

Gilgamesh gives a bark of laughter. "You can definitely say that again. But yeah essentially flower crowns here are meant only for those you're married to, or those you want to marry—it's a cute way for people to publicly announce their engagements." He gives Enjolras a sideways glance. "Are you thinking of making Ereshkigal one?"

"Something like that," he says noncommittally, keeping his face serious although he wants to shout for joy.

She wants to commit to him. She wants to promise herself to him. She wants him to do the same for her, and it is all he can do not to run for her right this instant and say yes, yes to all of it, yes to everything, yes, yes, yes.

She may not have said she loved him out loud, but she says it with her eyes and her hands and the way she says his name, and now she's saying it with her actions.

He's fine with that; he doesn't need the words if she'll give him this.

* * *

Éponine stands before her people, every last deity and demon, every single spirit and soul in her realm gathered in front of her.

She raises her hands, palm up. "My own," she says, "my beloved, my treasured ones, _my_ people. Mine as I am yours, yours as you are mine—thank you for serving me well and honorably this year, as you have served me every year since I came to my throne. May I continue to serve you half as well—"

She stops as the crowd roars in approval, lips turning up in a pleased smile, waiting for the sound to die down before continuing. "—and may the new year prove as bountiful and enriching as this one has! To Erkalla!"

"To Erkalla!" her people echo. "To Death! To Ereshkigal, our lady! To Ereshkigal, Queen of the Land Far Beneath the Heavens! To Ereshkigal, She Who Rules Alone!"

They name her thrice in the ways of the gods, and she walks into the crowd until she reaches the heart of it, where a little girl waits, a simple circlet of wood in her hands, made from the first tree cut down that year.

Éponine moves to kneel before her and bows her head, letting the little girl place the crown upon her head, feeling the mantle of power settle securely on her shoulders once more, Erkalla recognizing that the people have crowned her Queen once more.

"Thank you," she says, winking at the little girl and smiling widely as her people cheer. The girl nods once and smiles a gap-toothed smile before bowing and running back to her mother.

Éponine watches her, then stands and turns to meet Enjolras's gaze. She begins to walk towards him, not stopping until she's right in front of him.

"Nergal," she says, her voice low but infused with power so that it still reverberates through the crowd. "Son of Enlil, son of Ninlil, brother of Sin, Brother of Ninurta, god of death, Harbinger of Plague, Bringer of Oblivion."

She pauses, takes a breath, continues. "Lover of She Who Rules Alone." She raises her palms again, summoning the crown she made for him and holds it high so that all may see, ignoring the murmur of surprise that goes through the crowd.

"Will you kneel for me?" she asks him quietly.

He drops to one knee and bends his head in answer, and she places the crown on his head and makes him her consort before the eyes of her court and her people.

He is hers now and forever as she is his, bound by the laws of Erkalla.

But that night, as she leads him to her chambers, she knows it's not just the laws that bind them together, knows that she's lucky enough to have love as well.

* * *

Enjolras follows her back to her rooms, his hand in hers and his heart pounding in his chest.

The minute she shuts the door behind them, he presses her against it and kisses her deeply, tongue tangling with hers as he tries to show her everything he wants to say.

She tugs on his hair and pulls him away, and he opens his eyes to find her staring at him, eyes wide and serious and strangely vulnerable.

"You may go," she says. "You may leave now, if you wish. I will not keep you here; I give you back your freedom."

At first, he's confused, and then he's hurt and angry. Why is she telling him to leave?

And then he stops and goes over her words, listens to everything she says and figures out what she _means_.

_If you wish_, she had said.

"I choose to stay," he tells her, and he knows he said the right thing because she's practically tearing his clothes off after that, fisting her hands in his hair and holding his mouth fierce against hers, legs wrapped around his waist and heels digging into his back.

When they stumble into bed, she pulls him over her, lying back and offering herself to him, hair fanning out in a beautiful display over her pillows, the crown still upon her head, every inch of her regal and glorious.

He moves to take his crown off, but she shakes her head. "Leave it," she says, drawing him down for another kiss.

Soon he's moving inside her, urgent and wild and desperate, and he presses kisses over her face and names her. "My lady," he says, "my queen, my goddess, Death herself, She Who Rules Alone—"

"No," she moans, arching up against him. "Not alone. Not anymore." She opens her eyes and stares up at him. "Say it," she begs. "Say it again, please say it."

He knows what she wants and he gives it to her gladly.

"Éponine," he says as he thrusts into her, as he holds her gaze, as he makes love to her with his whole body and heart and soul. "Éponine, I love you."

Her eyes widen, darkening in pleasure, but she keeps them open as she comes, and she watches as he follows after, her answer in written there for him to see.

_I love you, too_.

* * *

The next morning finds them together in her dining hall at breakfast, satisfied smiles on their faces as Gavroche and Grantaire happily tease them, Combeferre quietly radiating approval and joy.

The god of gates leaves halfway through the meal though, excusing himself to take care of new arrivals.

"Huh," Éponine says. "They're early."

"Who's early?" Enjolras asks.

She smiles at him mischievously. "Well, a certain someone has been complaining about how I've been terribly lax, letting the gods under my jurisdiction flaunt their duties and do whatever they please—so I've decided to rectify matters a little."

He stops and stares at her. "What?"

She shrugs, feigning nonchalance. "Oh, it's nothing much—it's not as if I've invited everyone back to my realm just yet. It's only a god of illness, and maybe one or two gods of war." She bites into her pomegranate to try and hide her smile, but he can still see the upturned corners of her lips and the sparkle in her eyes.

"You mean—?"

"Enjolras!"

He turns around to see his brother striding through the open doors, and then he's caught up in a bone-crushing hug as Courfeyrac laughingly embraces him.

"Earth and air, would you look at that! Look at you! You look—are you _eating_?" Courfeyrac says the grin sliding off his face, replaced by a look of utter horror. "Oh, no, Enjolras—wait, wait, no, Cosette can fix this, she'll—"

"Cosette?" Enjolras says, surprised. "Is she here, too?"

"Yeah! We're here to rescue you!" Courfeyrac proclaims.

"What," Éponine says flatly, getting to her feet and fixing a cold glare on his brother, "do you mean by that, exactly?"

"He means we're taking our brother home with us," Cosette says, walking into the hall with her head held high, and Enjolras would be delighted if she wasn't looking at Éponine with nothing but hostility and challenge in her eyes.

"What on earth are _you_ doing here?" Éponine demands. "I didn't invite you."

"No," his sister answers, lifting her chin stubbornly. "I invited myself. Give my brother back."

"Combeferre!" Éponine yells. "Explain this!"

The god of gates appears in the doorway, looking more harassed than Enjolras has ever seen him. "My Lady," he begins, "it appears as if—"

"My dear nephew, I'll do the explaining if you will," says a familiar voice, and Uncle Georges soon comes into view, that clever grin on his face. Marius, Bahorel, and the rest of his friends follow behind him. "Hello, there, Ereshkigal. I did say I was dropping in for a visit, didn't I? It also seems that it's doubling as a rescue mission, but I always did like to multi-task."

Enjolras looks from his family members to his lover, and can't help the sinking feeling of dread in his stomach.

Oh,_ no_.

* * *

**Endnote: Thank you very much for reading this chapter. Please review and tell me what you think. Tell me your favorite line, or what you liked best about the chapter, or what you thought I could have done better. Honestly, even just a smiley face would be nice - feedback just helps me get in the mood to write, basically. :)**


	12. He Who Will Not Leave

**Author Note: Welcome to the twelfth chapter of ****_In the Land Between Rivers, I Have Loved You._**** Thank you for reading. :)**

**Disclaimer: I am not Victor Hugo. I do not own the book, the musical, or the film, and I certainly do not own the characters.**

* * *

**Chapter Twelve: He Who Will Not Leave**

* * *

Éponine stares at the crowd of strangers gathered in her hall, and her first impulse is to force them to their knees, bind them with her power, and then send them packing—she could take Uncle Georges, he was one of the greater gods, yes, but he stood in her realm, where her power was strongest, and the others were barely striplings, young gods all, she would not let them take him from her, she would _not_—

Uncle Georges gives her a knowing look before turning to face Enjolras. "That is, of course, if the man in question wishes to be rescued."

"Uncle! What are you even talking about, of course Enjolras wants to come home! Who would want to stay here?" says the tall, leanly muscled man with his arm around her lover.

"You watch your mouth," Grantaire says angrily. "Any god would be lucky to have a place here in Erkalla."

"Yeah, right," the young god scoffs. Courfeyrac, she guesses, the family resemblance between him and Enjolras clear, though he favors Uncle Jean even more clearly with his dark hair and his light brown skin.

Their sister, Cosette, could be the female version of Enjolras—golden skin, golden hair, everything about her bright and shining, a powerful young goddess in the first full bloom of her strength. Éponine remembers holding her, rocking her to sleep as a baby, singing her lullabies and grinning while those pretty blue eyes looked up at her, an answering smile in their depths.

She's not smiling now as she gazes coldly upon Éponine, tilting her chin in challenge. "Enjolras," she says. "Get your things. We're leaving."

Éponine feels her heart sink. What is she thinking? Fight Cosette? Fight Uncle Jean and Aunt Fantine's daughter, fight the first goddess born in her realm, fight the woman Enjolras had spoken of with such admiration and fondness and love?

She can't fight his sister. She can't fight this. She can't fight to keep him if he chooses to leave.

"No."

Everyone stops and stares at Enjolras. He shrugs his brother's arms off his shoulder and pulls away, walking to stand beside her. He reaches out confidently and grips her fingers (he must feel how cold they are, she notes distantly in some corner of her mind), squeezing them reassuringly before turning back to face his family. "I'm sorry that you've come here all this way for nothing, but I don't need to be rescued," he says firmly. "I am staying."

The room interrupts in a cacophony of shouted denials and confrontational questions, but she ignores them in favor of the look in his eyes, soft and open and yielding. She raises their linked fingers clumsily to her lips, pressing a kiss of gratitude to them, and he steps closer to her.

_No_, she thinks, _they will not take him. They __**cannot**__ take him, he is mine now, he has chosen to be my king. He is mine and they will __**not**__ have him_.

"Silence," she says out loud, lacing her voice with power, and instantly the room goes quiet. "Now, such an invasion as you have planned simply will not do, Uncle Georges, especially not one with the express purpose of kidnapping one of my people against his will."

"Kidnapping! You're the one who's—" Courfeyrac bursts out.

"Quiet, Courfeyrac. You said you would let me handle this," Uncle Georges interrupts.

Courfeyrac bites his lip and looks mutinous, but he obeys.

Uncle Georges continues, "My dear niece, as I said, the main purpose of this trip is to visit you. If there is no rescuing to be done, then I am simply bringing a batch of your new cousins to meet you. Boys, say hello to Ereshkigal, Goddess of Death, Queen of Erkalla, and She—"

"She Who Rules Below," Éponine interrupts, taking a quiet satisfaction in the way Georges's brows raise in faint surprise.

"—She Who Rules Below," he finishes.

"Hello," they mumble, all of them dropping into quick, practiced bows.

"Good job. Now, Ereshkigal, this is—"

"Jehan," she says, deliberately invoking their intimate names in a slight breach of conduct, but she wants to make a point, "Bahorel. Feuilly. Joly. Bossuet. Marius." She meets each of their eyes in turn. "Courfeyrac. And of course, Cosette."

Cosette grudgingly bows in acknowledgement. "Your Highness," she says, before lifting her eyes to burn holes into Enjolras, pointedly moving her gaze from their linked hands to his face.

Enjolras meets his sister's stare and stubbornly lifts his chin. "Fine. Great. Now that we've all met each other, you can all—"

"—be taken to your rooms," Éponine says. "If you are indeed guest honored guests of mine, you are welcome to stay for a few days. Enjoy yourselves. I did invite three of you, after all, and Uncle Georges invites himself and whomever he pleases—"

"You say that as if it were a bad thing," Uncle Georges says with a grin.

She narrows her eyes playfully at him, at ease and in her element now that Enjolras has made his allegiance so clear. "It is a bad thing if you invite so many people. Anyway, Neti will show you all to your rooms."

Combeferre steps forward, saying, "Please, call me Combeferre. Any friends of Enjolras are friends of mine."

Cosette ignores him. "Step away from my brother, Your Highness," she says in a low, heated voice. "I don't know what you've done to him, but—"

"Cosette!" Enjolras says, but Éponine simply lifts a hand.

"What are you implying?" she asks, tilting her head, her voice carefully neutral.

"I am _accusing_ you of coercing him. Enchanting him. _Seducing_ him. One year ago, he refused to so much as bow to acknowledge your sovereignty; now you have him eating out of your hand. I sense subterfuge and treachery, Your Highness. And I do not care how much power you have, I will do whatever it takes to save my brother," Cosette says.

"It's not like that!" Enjolras shouts, stepping forward in front of her, as if he wished to use his body to shield her from his sister's accusations.

Éponine walks past him, moving until she and the younger goddess stand face to face. "You remind me of your mother, you know," she says softly. "Nearly six centuries ago, she stood in this very hall, interrupting me at supper, demanding I return her loved one. I almost didn't want to, though, because in the months he had spent here in the Underworld, he had grown to be a trusted companion, and I have few enough of those as it is. But he wished to leave, and so I let him go with her.

"You have her bravery and her strength, and normally I would reward such traits, but not today. Today, your loved one wishes to stay, and I will not deny him. I have not taken him against his will; he has been safe in my halls, I give you my word. But since you do not know me, I will allow him to tell you himself," Éponine says.

She turns to Enjolras. "Go with your siblings. You haven't seen them for a year. Catch up, tell them your stories, let them tell you their own. I am not so selfish to keep you from your friends and family after such a long separation."

"If it wasn't for you, we wouldn't even have been separated in the first place," Courfeyrac mutters underneath his breath.

"If Enjolras hadn't been a stupid, stubborn idiot, she wouldn't have had cause to summon him, you moron," Gavroche says angrily on Éponine's behalf.

"Hey!" Courfeyrac says, stepping forward, Bahorel's arm coming up to stop him.

"You want to challenge me, godling? Fine. I could take you with my eyes closed," Gavroche says, grinning.

"Son," Uncle Georges says chidingly.

"Sorry, Father," Gavroche replies, stepping back, though he's still glaring balefully at the little group, Grantaire doing the same beside him. Enjolras's friends glare back, and the tension crackles through the room.

"Oh, for earth and air's sake, stop it!" Enjolras snaps. "You're my friends, and they're my friends, and grandstanding like this as if you're about to leap at each other's throats at any second is frankly ridiculous!"

The others look at him incredulously. "Enjolras…you sound like yourself," Joly says.

"Of course I still sound like myself, who else would I sound like?" he says, exasperated.

Éponine sees several quick glances in her direction, and she smirks, crossing her arms. So they thought she enchanted him? A few days with him would clear that misapprehension quickly enough.

She slants her eyes at Georges. "Uncle. While my cousins are getting reacquainted with each other, do you care to play a game with me?"

He grins at her. "My dear girl, I would love nothing more."

* * *

"What in the name of chaos are you thinking?" Cosette asks as soon as the doors close behind Combeferre, who had quietly retreated once he delivered them to opulent rooms in the same wing as Enjolras's. Bahorel and the others were just down the hall, getting themselves situated, and it was just him and his siblings for the moment. "Have you lost your mind? What spell has she cast on you?"

Enjolras jerks his head away from the hands she's trying to lay on his face. "I told you, I'm fine. I'm centuries past my coming-of-age, Cosette, I can make my own decisions—"

"You have just spent a year in the company of the cruelest goddess in the pantheon, forgive me if I'm a little worried!" Cosette shouts. "And now here you are, holding hands with her, wearing clothes in her colors, letting her treat you like you're some kind of pet!"

Enjolras bites down on the instinctive response to shout back, and says as calmly as possible, "Ereshkigal is_not _cruel."

"See? See? _That _right there is why we're worried about you!" Courfeyrac says, pointing at him.

Enjolras frowns. "What do you mean?"

"'Ereshkigal isn't cruel'—what are you even saying, she's just starved you for who knows how many months! She could've had you imprisoned in the pits of punishment just for refusing to bow to her! And you used to give speech after speech explaining why she and the other older second generation gods were tormenting the humans, how they were shirking their duties and—and—and—you used to hate her!" Courfeyrac says, gesturing wildly.

"Did I honestly sound like that?" Enjolras says, wincing. Chaos help him, it was a miracle she'd even bothered giving him a chance. He shakes his head. "Well, I was an idiot."

That stops them dead in their tracks. "Enjolras," Courfeyrac says, horrified. "What did she _do_ to you?"

"I'm telling you, nothing! Look, here, cast your spell on me, Cosette. She hasn't used any magic, I swear," he says, sitting.

Cosette sits carefully beside him and starts a complex, powerful spell, her familiar magic running through his system, and Enjolras shivers slightly as he continues talking: "I was completely wrong—or, well, not completely, Ereshkigal can be very stubborn about admitting when she's made mistakes—"

"Sounds like someone we know," Cosette mutters, glaring pointedly at him.

Enjolras ignores her for now, trying to convince his siblings as best he can. "But Erkalla is amazing! It's nothing like we thought—like I thought—though yes, a few places here and there are rather dreary, and I swear winter's never been as cold up on the surface as it is here—but the people! The people! They're practically self-governing—they elect their own representatives—they have a voice on the councils, it's amazing. There's a group of Lesser Councils that oversee each and every town and village. No one is forgotten. I've got a seat on it, actually, to help mediate disputes—and then Ereshkigal herself comes to coordinate our efforts with the High Council—"

"He's fine," Cosette announces, pulling away from him.

"Seriously?" Courfeyrac says.

"No need to sound so surprised," Enjolras replies scathingly.

Cosette gives him a quelling look. "Enjolras, why are you doing this?" she asks quietly, serious now, the anger leashed, calculation and logic taking its place.

"Doing what?" he says, crossing his arms, still annoyed.

"Being so hostile. Treating us like the enemy," she says.

"You just invaded my home and accused my—" he cuts himself off. "Accused my queen," he says carefully, "of enchanting me and trying to keep me here against my will. And you have refused to listen to any of my explanations otherwise."

"You haven't explained _anything_," Courfeyrac says, exasperated.

"Because you won't believe me!"

"Cosette, talk to him!"

Cosette just stares at him. "You just called this place home," she says slowly.

"What?" Courfeyrac says.

"You just called this place home," she repeats, looking at Enjolras with dawning fear and bewilderment. "And you called her your queen. You honestly want to stay."

"Yes," Enjolras says.

"But—but why?" Courfeyrac asks, horrified.

Enjolras glances down at his interlinked fingers. "I love her," he answers quietly.

Complete and utter silence descends upon the room.

Cosette closes her eyes and sighs. "You've never showed the slightest inclination towards having a romantic relationship with someone before," she says. "How can you even be sure that this is what this is? She's beautiful, commanding, alluring—and she's been in a position of power over you for a whole year. This is just…infatuation, sympathizing with the enemy. She's manipulating you."

"She's_ not_," he argues. "You don't understand—she loves me, too, she wouldn't manipulate me, she—"

"She's lying!" Cosette says, slamming her hand down on the table. "Have you forgotten who her sister is? You've seen how Anu's daughters destroy men, draw them in and strip them bare and leave them in pieces, uncaring of how they act or who they hurt. What makes you think you're any different?"

Enjolras takes a deep breath and holds it. How is he supposed to explain everything that Éponine is? The way she tilts her head right before taking one of his pieces in the Royal Game. How she's memorized all his favorite foods. How her nose crinkles when she laughs. The way she drums her fingers when she's feeling impatient. The way she remembers all her subjects, from kings to carpenters. How she cares so deeply for everyone in her realm. How she teases Gavroche and banters with Grantaire and discusses with Combeferre and always, always, always challenges him in every conversation they've ever had.

How she says his name when he's making love to her. How she always holds him when they sleep as if she would never let him go. How she has seven different smiles—one to show her anger, one for intimidating, one for inside jokes, one for when she's trying to surprise someone, one that lights up her whole face when she sees someone she cares about, one right before she kisses him, and one she gives him only when she thinks he isn't looking (and sometimes she lets it slip when he tells her he loves her).

No, he can't explain all that even if he tries.

"Trust me," he says instead. "I know you don't trust her, but trust me and my judgment. I've changed, yes, but only for the better. It's—she's—I love her. I love her and I want to stay here and it doesn't even matter if she doesn't love me back, because I can wait. I can wait for her to love me back if you would please, please just trust me," he pleads.

He knows even before his siblings shake their heads that they won't.

* * *

"So, you're looking much better than you did the last time I visited," Georges says.

"I would be even better if you weren't here trying to take what's mine," she says lightly, taking one of his pieces off the board, setting it down on the table with a distinct clack.

Her uncle only grins at her. "Come now, my dear, you know I was only joking about that. It's quite obvious to anyone with eyes that Fantine's boy is head over heels for you, especially with that little handholding display."

"Mmm," she says noncommittally, but she has to duck her head to hide her smile.

"And from the way you kissed his fingers, I would gather you felt the same way?" her uncle prompts.

She shrugs. "Perhaps."

His grin widens. "I knew you would like him. I told Jean not to worry, but he didn't listen, of course—he and Fantine have been fretting terribly these past few months, and so have Cosette and Courfeyrac, I'm afraid. They're convinced you've been torturing him and are rather determined to rescue him."

"And you decided to help them?" she asks dryly.

"I thought a neutral party could be useful," Georges says. "I've no doubt you'll win them over eventually—just be sure not to underestimate Cosette. She's a young woman with a good head on her shoulders."

"I won't," Éponine replies. "If she doesn't underestimate me, we might even be friends someday, after she's gotten over this ridiculous idea that I could force Enjolras to do anything. Honestly, has she even met her brother if she thinks anyone could convince him to do something he doesn't want to? He's the most stubborn man I've ever met."

"True," Georges says cheerfully, then moves a piece. "Ah, I win."

"Damn it," Éponine mutters, staring at the board. "You cheated."

"No, dear girl, I'm just that good," he replies, winking, and the two of them laugh.

* * *

Éponine is laughing when she enters the hall with Uncle Georges, but it fades when she sees the look on his face.

"What's wrong?" she murmurs as he comes up to her.

"Nothing," he replies, running possessive hands up and down her arms. "Just my family being a little…pig-headed."

"Reminds me of someone I know," she says wryly, and he wrinkles his nose at her, causing her to laugh again.

The sound draws the stare of everyone else in the room, and he can see his friends look at her appraisingly, trying to match up the picture of the angry, bitter hag who ruled Erkalla from the stories with the vibrant, gorgeous goddess who stands before them now.

Following the rules of etiquette, all of them bow, and Éponine dips her head in acknowledgement. She leaves him at his customary seat at the end of the table, Courfeyrac and Cosette on either side of him, and seats herself at the head, Grantaire, Combeferre, and Gavroche ranged around her, the demarcations of who is one whose team clear.

Dinner progresses, and there's an awkward moment when Enjolras digs into his meal with his usual gusto, and everyone stares incredulously at him.

"What?" he asks.

"You're not supposed to be eating," Joly hisses.

"He lasted eleven months to prove his point, he can afford to eat now," Gavroche retorts.

"Eleven months?" Cosette says. "You only had a single month left?"

_Why?_ all his family and friends seem to ask him silently. _Why couldn't you have waited?_

Enjolras deliberately bites into the slice of bread. "You should eat," he says pointedly. "Ereshkigal's cooks are fantastic."

"Thanks, but we'd rather not be stuck here in the Underworld just the same," Bossuet says. "We brought food."

Combeferre, Grantaire, and Gavroche freeze at this blatant dismissal of Éponine's hospitality, glancing up from their food to stare at his friends with rapidly growing anger.

"It's safe," Éponine says, tone casual. "You're my guests—under our laws, this grants you a certain amount of leeway. You can leave when you like, so long as you do not harm any of my subjects or break any of my laws. You can eat from my table and drink from my cup, so long as you've brought the appropriate gifts in return." She pauses over her soup, glancing up at them. "You _did_ bring welcoming gifts, didn't you?"

"Uh," Joly says. "Well…"

Cosette takes a piece of jewelry from her hair and tosses it onto the table. "There's mine, O Goddess of Riches."

Enjolras makes a displeased sound in throat, but the others follow suit, stripping off pieces of jewelry and piling them defiantly in the middle of the banquet. With each new item, Gavroche and the others look more and more furious.

Uncle Georges makes a tsk-ing noise. "Honestly, what happened to all your manners?"

"Don't worry," Éponine says dryly. "They're not any worse than Enjolras was when he first came here." She glances at each of them in turn, settling on one in particular. "Marius, please eat. Have some of the lamb stew—if I recall correctly, that's your favorite, isn't it?"

"Uh, y-yes, it is," Marius says, surprised.

"How would you know that?" Feuilly asks, curious.

Éponine smiles. "Uncle Georges has brought him to my realm before to visit Gavroche. He was just a little boy then, barely a few decades old, so I would understand if he didn't remember me."

Gavroche snorts. "Not bloody likely. The twerp had the biggest crush on you. He followed you around like a love-sick puppy the whole time he was here, kept picking flowers and everything."

"I—I—I," Marius stutters, turning bright red. Enjolras narrows his eyes at him, and sees Cosette do the same.

Éponine laughs. "That was ages ago, of course. Just a boyhood crush. I see that you're engaged now, though," she says, nodding at the promise bracelet encircling his wrist. "Who's the lucky woman?"

Enjolras knows even before his sister opens her mouth who it is. "You're engaged?" he says. "Congratulations!"

Grantaire raises a brow. "You were with your family and friends for the whole day and they didn't tell you your sister got engaged? You were supposed to catch up. What in the name of chaos did you all talk about?"

Bahorel and the others look guilty. "Um. Well."

Enjolras just shakes his head—they'd spent most of the afternoon trying to convince him to leave that very night. Catching up had been the last thing on their agenda. "I'm sorry I missed the celebrations, but here, before you leave I can carve you a gift and a marriage chest—"

"You can carve one when you're _home_," Cosette says stubbornly. "And you can give it to us on our wedding day, because you'll be there, won't you?"

Enjolras furrows his brows. "I…"

"Of course he will," Éponine says. "Combeferre or Grantaire can even accompany him and Gavroche." _To make sure he comes back to me_, was the unspoken message.

Enjolras frowns. "There's no need for them to come. I could go by myself. You can trust me to come back," he declares.

Éponine smiles. "I know, little one. That's not why I would send them with you."

"You're a great god of the Underworld now," Grantaire says through a mouthful of food. "Great gods don't travel without a proper escort. Sorry, but with power comes pain-in-the-ass preparations."

"He is _not_ a god of the Underworld," Cosette says.

Grantaire rolls his eyes at her. "Look, you might as well accept that he's not going anywhere—"

"If you think we'd abandon our brother—"

"—think he wants to stay, don't you?"

"—never leave our friend behind—"

"—such rude, ungrateful—for chaos's sake, our Lady wouldn't—"

"—don't know what you've done, but—"

"Quiet, children," Georges says. "Some of us are trying to eat." He looks at each of them pointedly. They eventually subside.

Éponine clears her throat. "So, Bahorel, I understand you like to play cards…?"

The rest of dinner is spent in cautious conversation, Éponine playing the part of perfect, cordial hostess, while his friends stubbornly insist on being the boorish guests, Gavroche and Grantaire egging them on and making cutting comments every so often.

All in all, it's the most awkward meal he's ever sat through, even including that first night here in Éponine's realm where he spent most of supper uncomfortably aroused and desperately conflicted.

Eventually, Éponine stands to leave and Enjolras automatically stands with her, glad that the horrific ordeal is over and they can retreat to her chambers.

Marius sees the movement and gets to his feet as well. "Oh, sorry. I didn't know it was polite to stand if you were leaving, um, Your Highness," he says, clumsily bowing, and the others rise and follow suit.

Éponine gives him an amused look, her mouth quirking ever-so-slightly into a small smile. "It's not necessary at all," she says. "Sit down."

"Oh! But then—why would—" Marius cuts himself off, his brows drawing together in confusion as he tilts his head and shoots a quizzical glance at Enjolras. "Why are you leaving so soon?"

Enjolras stares at him, feeling his cheeks flush in mortification as he realizes that despite his earlier declaration of love for Éponine, his friends don't think he's lain with her. "I—"

"Why do you think he was leaving, moron?" Gavroche interrupts, rolling his eyes. He jerks his head towards Éponine. "They're heading to bed, obviously."

The dining hall goes utterly silent as dawning looks of comprehension grace his family and friends' faces, while Combeferre looks resigned and Grantaire looks to be suppressing the urge to snicker as Gavroche crosses his arms in challenge. Joly, Jehan, and Bossuet look shocked, Bahorel looks faintly impressed, Feiully seems surprised but encouraging, Marius looks embarrassed, Courfeyrac looks torn between offering him congratulations or shaking him senseless, and Cosette looks positively livid.

Uncle Georges, of course, simply looks knowing and nonchalantly amused.

"Oh," Marius says, turning equally red. "Oh. So you two are—are—well—you know, you're—so you've gotten that far?"

Enjolras glowers at him, and Marius snaps his mouth closed and hastily sits down, the others finally doing the same.

Cosette is still giving him a look that manages to combine "displeased admonishment" with "worried pleading," and Courfeyrac is trying to not-so-subtly catch his eye and possibly do the same with a little more "congratulations-on-losing-your-virginity" thrown in. He knows with a terrible certainty that he'll have to answer their questions as soon as they get him alone, but he plans on avoiding that conversation as long as possible.

So, he gives Cosette a firm look and shakes his head just the slightest bit in negation before turning to leave, only to find Éponine right before him.

She crosses her arms. "Stay a little longer," she says. "I would have you spend more time with your friends—they haven't seen you in a year, after all. I'll be fine."

There's a look in her eyes warning him not to argue, so he does as she asks and takes his seat, his jaw set tightly in frustration. He's not ashamed to be with her, and he's certainly not ashamed of his decision to stay in Erkalla, and he frankly doesn't want to sit here and have his sanity questioned for the rest of the night.

He's worried, too, because she hasn't initiated any of their touches—not once has she so much as laid a finger on him without him reaching for her first since his family invaded, and all he can think is that she's having second thoughts, or maybe she thinks that _he's_ having second thoughts, and he longs to simply go to bed with her and show her that nothing's changed, that he still wants her.

(He wants to know that she still wants him, too.)

He glares stubbornly at his plate, already composing another argument in his head to try and convince Cosette to just _leave him behind_ already, so he starts a little in surprise when cool fingers touch his chin.

He turns his head automatically and sucks in a startled breath when Éponine's lips descend on his, her hand tightening on his jaw as she kisses him slowly and thoroughly, tongue coaxing his mouth open and tracing shiver-inducing patterns on the roof of his mouth.

He moans low in his throat, and she chooses that moment to pull away, leaving him wanting. He opens his eyes (when did he close them?) to find her looking down at him fondly.

"I'll leave my door unlocked, little one," she says, brushing the backs of her fingers over his cheek before walking away.

The minute she's out of sight, Bahorel clears his throat. "Well, damn," he says, definitely looking impressed now. "I can see why you want to stay so badly."

This time, Grantaire doesn't even bother trying to stifle his laughter.

* * *

Éponine is hugging a pillow and nervously biting down on one of her knuckles when the door opens, letting a flood of light into the room before a shadow comes across it and closes it shut.

Éponine sits up, a word of greeting ready on her lips when Enjolras's mouth descends on hers, his hands pressing her gently back into the bed. She kisses him back eagerly enough, wrapping her arms tight around him.

"How was your day, little one?" she asks tenderly a few minutes later, turning her head away when it seems he won't stop. She'd rather not talk about it as well, but this is important.

Enjolras sighs, laying his head on her shoulder. "If you ever catch me complaining about how the Lesser Councils are the most stubborn, mule-headed, temperamental people who refuse to listen to reason or logic in all three realms, please remind me of today," he says petulantly.

"That bad?" she asks.

She can feel him nod against her. "They won't believe me," he says, his voice small. "They don't think that I—that we—" He breaks off and buries his face in the crook of her neck.

She draws him closer, pressing a kiss to his temple. "They can't take you; I won't let them," she promises. "You are mine, and I am yours, and they're just going to have to accept that."

He lets his breath out in a shuddering sigh. "I love you," he says.

She pushes him onto his back and climbs on, kissing him and kissing him and kissing him like she won't ever stop, using actions to show him what she can't say.

* * *

Cosette comes to confront her after breakfast the next day, and Éponine thinks that she really is her mother's daughter.

"He's staying here, you know," she says, not even bothering to look up from the reports strewn around her on the chaise lounge in the wide, sunny sitting room where she does most of her work. "It would be easiest if you just accepted that."

"You may have tricked him, but you haven't tricked me," Cosette says.

At this, Éponine _does_ look up, exasperated. "I have been more honest with your brother than I have with anyone else in longer than I care to remember. If anyone's done the tricking, it's him."

Cosette scoffs. "He's half your age with at least a quarter less of your power, if not more. He's idealistic and trusting and just a little naïve, and he's never had a lover before. I know the game you're playing with him, and it isn't fair. I know who you are, even if he refuses to see it."

"Oh? And who exactly do you think I am?"

Cosette looks at her, steady and measuring. "You're the greatest of the second generation gods. You are Death itself. You are both cruel and kind, selfish and giving. And you never, ever change. You may not mean to, but soon you will tire of my brother and cast him aside, and what then? He says he loves you, and I think he believes it; I hope he doesn't, but if he does then it's all the more reason to get him away from you before you can break his heart.

"You are She Who Rules Alone, and in a thousand years as queen of this realm, never once have you indicated you would ever wish to be otherwise."

Éponine gets to her feet, Cosette's words smarting like a slap to the face. "You're wrong," she says, snarling.

"Am I? Tell me, She Who Rules Alone—do you love my brother?"

Éponine stares at her, the words _Yes, I love him_ lodging painfully in her throat like shards of glass as the silence stretches on and on.

(She hasn't told anyone she's loved them since she said it to Azelma, only to have her sister fling the words back in her face and strike her to the bone.)

Cosette nods. "I thought so," she says, turning to walk away.

"He is mine," Éponine bursts out. "And I keep what's mine, goddess."

Cosette looks at her over her shoulder. "And now we get to the heart of the matter, don't we? You wish to keep him because you think he belongs to you."

"Because he's given himself to me," Éponine says heatedly.

"He didn't have a choice!"

"He always had a choice!"

"No, he didn't!" Cosette shouts. "He didn't because our parents took that choice away! They bargained his freedom for mine—the Underworld needs its sacrifices, and he was marked the second he was born!"

"So what?" Éponine yells.

"So you can let him go as long as someone stays behind to take his place!" Cosette says, taking a deep breath and visibly calming herself. When she speaks again, her voice is level. "I have a bargain for you: I will stay here one week every month of the year, fulfilling the terms of my birth. It never specified how long the person of my blood has to stay, just as long as they can call this place home. You can give Enjolras back, and I will serve my sentence, the way I was always meant to."

Éponine opens her mouth to tell Cosette where she can shove her bargain, but someone else speaks first.

"What," Enjolras says from the doorway, betrayal filling his eyes, "did you just say?"

* * *

**Endnote: Now, now, people, everyone stay calm and just...brace yourselves. We're in for a slightly bumpy ride, but I promise you we'll get to the end safe and sound. **

**Anyway, thank you for reading! And thank you especially to everyone who reviewed the last chapter: DeathDaisy, Rosabelmay, wicked87, KsandraMallan, Cassidy-Chickandy, Blame the Faceless, jdotess, Lela, frustratedstudent, RavenCurls, GirlWithTheNotebook, and two Guests! It's much appreciated! :D**

**Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this one, and please,****_ please_**** review and tell me what you thought - tell me your favorite line or scene, what you hated or what you loved (I know, I know, Cosette is very frustrating, but I do hope you see where she's coming from...), or just drop by and leave a smiley face. The encouragement always helps. :)**


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